
Class. _.. -_ 6 oc> 3 

Book ^.T±0'/ 

CopyrightN^ 110 



C0PYR5GHT DEPOSIT. 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/murmuringsfromruOObroo 



Murmu 


ring's from 


Rug'g'e< 


d Waters. 


a^ J^ jSf J0 ^ 


BY ^ £f j0 j& £/ 


JAMES P. 




BROOMFIELD. 



THE simple pleadings of the lowly swain 
Who trysts at gloaming tide his suo-brow^ned Jane^ 
Might sound uncouth unto the cultured ear, 
And cause, perhaps, a high-born maid to sneer ; 
But sweet to Jane, w^ho blushes like some rose 
That by the roadway, fragrant, freely blows. 
A lowly singer weaves a simple lay 
Of gurgling burn, of heath, and hodden gray : 
The learned critic spurns the proffered page 
For abler writings of some princely sage. 
The rugged murmurings of the simple heart 
Might lack the measured tone that^s gained by art : 
The rugged verse — uncouth to classic pen — 
Yet in their gurglings reach the souls of men. 



Internatioi^al Publlstiin^ Co., 
Detroit, Micliig'ao, U. S. A., 1901. 

Press of tHe Morrisoni Printing Company. 



THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Received 

MAY 31 1901 

Copyright entry 

Trieste, f<^oi 

CLASS O^XXc. Nb. 

COPY g. J 



Copyright 1901, 
By jAM:es P. BroomFiei^d. 



tLo 

1bon, Mllliam Xtvtno^tone, 3t» 

of Detroit, 

a ©entleman wbo bas Done mucb to encourage 

to a lustier growtb m^ bumble 

poetical aspirations 

anO to tbe 

^ang ©tber TKHarm 3frien&s 

wbo bave cbeereD mg waig witb MnD wisbes, 

tbis 2lutO0rapb \3olume is 

IRespectfulls BeOicateO 

{Tbe autbor, 




ck^^-^e^' y^^^-^^^ii'-^n?^ 



.Ael/oC.^ 



INDEX 



Page. 

A Legend O' May Morning 9 

The Dying Piper i6 

I Wish I had a Mither i8 

The Miller's Sally 20 

Comrades All 22 

Youth's Happy Home 23 

What Auld Folk Say 26 

The Miser O' Tadmhor Brae 29 

Sandy's Three Wishes 35 

Yesterday s^ 

Blinks O' Springtime 41 

Good-bye, Daddy 43 

Flora 46 

Changes O' Nature 48 

I-addie O' the Sea 49 

For Queen and Country 51 

Broom Blossom 53 

Dyed Egg Day 55 

To a Bud in March 57 

Daddie's Comin' 61 

The Silver-Haired Lady 63 

A Bairn's Ambition 65 

A Coast Lullaby 67 

A Dream O' Jed 69 

The Open Door 72 

He Fell for Liberty 74 

Rare Harvest Time 76 

Oor Willie 77 

The Sailor's Farewell 80 

Piper Winter 82 

Kirsty's Robin 84 

To An Elocutionist 87 

Where Heather Blooms 89 

Annie, a Love Song 91 

A Mother's Dream 93 

The Shepherd to His Collie 96 

A Brither Scott 99 

North Birwick by the Sea lOi 

The Song of the Skater 103 

A Soldier Boy's Letter to Mother 104 

Ten Years To-Day 106 



Page 

MacLeans of Fair Glenrhoe ; io8 

Robert Burns II3 

The Gleaner 1 16 

The Widow's Tears Ii8 

A War Brother 120 

Our Golden Jubilee 122 

Yon Bonnie Blue Bell 124 

The Fairee Companee 127 

The Heroes O' Dargai Gap 130 

The Pairtings O' Yestreen 131 

The Old Soldier 133 

A' Body's Wean 135 

Auld Scotia 138 

In Memory of a Nation's Bard , 140 

Papa's Dimples 141 

In Loving Memory O' My Mither-Aunt 143 

A Piper's Canary 145 

Wee Miriam 147 

The Miller O' Sweethope Lea 149 

Where The Peesweips Fly 153 

Mother's Song 157 

Watching and Waiting 159 

Castle Ony 162 

The Pen O' Bacon 164 

Robert Hopkin 166 

A Shepherd's Lilt 168 

Three 170 

Wee Jessie Bhie-Eyes 172 

Mither's Plaid O' Gray 174 

Hame Again 176 

Heather Musings 179 

To a Wild Rose 181 

A Borderer Bold 184 

A Vision 190 

Speed Ye Well 195 

PROSE. 

A Roadway (Minstrel 199 

Mona, The Brown-Haired 207 

The Brownie 216 

Graeme Douglas 233 

Jean, The Gypsy 240 

For Mother's Sake 251 

Symon Meine's Awakening 265 

Adam's Return 276 

The Wishing Well 286 

The Herd's Annie 294 



• • • • P R £> FA C El' • • • • 

— " Caledonia, Stern and Wild, 
Meet nurse for a poetic child" 

ONE of the loveliest regions in the South-eastern part of Scotland, is 
where the author of the above lines delighted to dwell and muse 
amidst the charming surroundings of Abbotsfords and Melrose Abbey, 
receiving therefrom fertile inspiration which i nriched the world with 
unexcelled literature. 

It was in this enchanting district where our poet-author, James P. 
Broomfield, spent his early years, breathing the same fragrant air, viewing 
the same romantic scenery and listening to the same ' ' murmuring waters ' ' 
as his noble predecessor. Sir Walter Scott. 

With such a grand ideal, and under such nourishing influences, it is no 
marvel that the Divine Afflatus born in our poet-author should bud and 
blossom with tropical exuberance, enabling him to give to the world his 
most most exquisite, entertaining volume of " Murmurings i^rom Rugged 
Waters." 

The word " murmuring " in the title should not be interpreted as being 
symbolic of complaint, but rather as the joyful natural ripple of musical, 
meandering streams, leaping, laughing contentedly and merrily over the 
pebbly obstructions in their course, and bounding over the large boulders, 
on their way to the ocean, as genial optimists play a game of leap frog 
over the obstacles of life. Such is the tenor of our talented poet -author's 
productions, and taken in this sense the title is well chosen. 

Every piece in the book is intensely interesting, and contains gems of 
thought well worth treasuring in the memory and handing down to future 
generations. The volume and all that it contains speaks for itself. Many 
of the pieces have received most favorable press notices, as, doubtless the 
whole work will, for years of friendship and personal intercourse with the 
author has given his prefator opportunities of knowing that his themes are 
inexhaustible, his creations and descriptions ptire in thought, noble in 
character, and free from the objectionable. 

Being of a cheerful disposition, he constantly looks upon the bright 
side of life ; and being sincere, his facile pen faithfully portrays, truthfully 
and forcibly, his own sympathetic nature . 

Mr. Broomfield is a native of Roxburghshire, Scotland. Born in 1862, 
he received his education in that district and in Edinburgh, landed in 
America and located in Detroit, Mich., in 1885. Married Miss Annie 
McVicar, a Scotch Canadian L,ady, in 1888, and three daughters bless their 
union. 

They are a very happy, charming family, and their numerous friends 
in the United States, Great Britain and Canada, rejoice that our gifted 
Poet-Author now publishes in book form, his delightful and instructive 
compositions of Song and Story. 

Geo. WUyWAMSON, Detroit, Mich. 



A LEGEND O' MAY MORNING. 



Inscribed to My Cousins, the Broomfields and Gordons. 

OLD Sol still lingered Eastra's guest, 

The lark's sweet matin still unsung, 
When, springing from our couch o' rest. 

We hailed the dawn wi' merry tongue ; 
Then, hand in hand, gay lad and lass 

Tripped merrily the way along 
Through hawthorn lanes, 'mang dewy grass. 

Through glens that echoed wi' our song. 

We climbed o'er rocks wi' fearless tread. 

Both lads an' lassies licht an' strong; 
We startled wee birds frae their bed, 

While hill an' dale pealed wi' our song; 
For we must cross the Brownie rill 

Before the lark proclaims the day. 
An' we must climb the nearest hill 

To wash wi' first dew o' Fair May. 

For this the legend old folk told : 
How once, in Scotia's fair domain. 

There lived a chieftain, kind an' bold, 

Whose name was feared by plund'ring Dane ; 

One morn, as roaming through the glen. 



Enamoured wi' the wee birds' song, 
He spied a troop o' armed men 

With one fair maid amidst the throng. 

The Viking flag, an' short, rude spears, 

An' tawny beards, foretold the Dane; 
The maiden seemed urged wi' fears, 

An' slowly limped as if with pain ; 
An' as they gained the shoreland's crest 

She saw the Chief, an', weeping, pray'd : 
Oh, if you've feeling in your breast, 

Save, save me, sir, while yet a maid !" 

Up to his lips he put his horn 

An' blew a blast both loud and long; 
From moss-crowned rock, an' flow'ring thorn, 

Sprang Scottish warriors brave an' strong; 
They soon dispersed the pirate horde 

An' drove them backwards to the sea; 
The maid was saved, an', by my word, 

A fairer maid none e'er did see. 

Her een were o' the deep, deep blue, 

Her hair in golden tresses hung. 
Her cheeks were o' the moss rose hue. 

No queenlier grace was ever sung. 
There peeped from 'neath a mantle green 

A dimpled foot o' perfect mold, 



An' tears, like dew gems, from her een 
Fell down while this her tale she told: 



The cruel Danes, at dead o' night, 

Invaded fair lona's Isle — 
Ransacked our homes, put all to flight. 

An' robbed me o' my father's smile ; 
They tore me, weeping, from_ the dead, 

An' bore me to their ocean steed; 
Before their Chief I knelt an' plead, 

But to my prayer he gave no heed. 

They dragged me, fainting, from his feet, 

And then, kind sir, I knew no more 
Until my tear-sore eyes did greet 

The dawn upon this kindly shore; 
I knew not, sir, their barb'rous tongue. 

But by their rude an' lustful stares 
I feared a worse than death o'erhung 

Their captive ; but God heard my pray'rs." 



The Chief his trusty henchmen bade 
A litter make with plaid an' spears. 

An' carry the fair stranger maid 

To one who'd kiss away her tears ; 

The gentle mother of the Chief, 
With kindly hand an' woman art, 



Soothed the sweet orphan maiden's grief 
That touched the gracious mother heart. 

He manned his boat, at rise o' tide, 

With twenty clansmen, strong- an' true, 
An' placed the fair maid by his side. 

While o'er the waves they quickly flew. 
At dawn they reached the Sacred Isle, 

Where all was panic an' dismay; 
Great was their joy when, free from guile. 

The Scot brought them their Virgin May. 



The Chief was to the chapel led 

Where Christian priests did fast an' pray 
They poured fond blessings on his head. 

An' thus spake father old an' gray: 
Fot this brave deed that thou hast done 

I bless your country's fair domain ; 
Her maidens true — brave aye her sons — 

Her name aye free from coward's stain." 

But stay! For yet a small request 
I beg of you an' yours this day ; 

To keep it true 'tis my behest, 

An' God will bless your land alway ; 

Ere Nature gleams with Sola's light. 
Ere laverocks greet the opening day, 



Your youth must climb the nearest height — 
In every year, the first o' May. 

Their faces they must bathe with dew 

That on the hilltops lieth clear, 
An' they will be both fair an' true 

To one another all the year. 
'Twill be a symbol, noble Chief, 

Of this bright morn in Virgin Spring, 
When you brought back, pure, though in grief. 

The daughter of our murdered King," 



The Chief bowed low, with bared head. 

In reverence to the holy sire. 
While o'er the scene great Sola spread 

A radiant robe of golden fire. 
Then spake the Chief, while all gave heed : 
" Your wishes, father, we'll revere ; 
But base the man, a coward indeed, 

That heedeth not a maiden's tear. 

Our hearths are humble, coarse our fare, 
An' rude the people of our land ; 

With you our humble fare we'll share ; 
Our swords are at your Isle's command; 

And woe befall the Viking horde 

That dare to raid your shores again, 

13 



For never yet hath Scottish sword 
Been proved a plaything of the vain." 



Again the Chieftain roams the glen 

When blossoms rare crown brae an' thorn, 
But happy maids, an' merry men, 

Sing songs of love this bright spring morn ; 
For she who leans upon his arm. 

An' smiles with love-light in her een, 
Is she he saved from Viking's harm, 

Now his fair wife — his clansmen's Queen. 



So ends the tale, but from that hour 
The Isle has blessed the Scottish pow'r. 

An' Scotia's youth have from that day 
Bathed with the first dew o' the May. 



We reached the bracken-crested height. 

An' bathed our faces wi' the dew ; 
Yes, bathed them to our hearts' delight. 

So we would bide aye fair an' true; 
An' now the glorious sun doth shine 

O'er frowning height an' rolling brae,, 
An' from the meads a song divine 

Soars upwards to the God o' Day. 



14 



We knelt enraptured side by side 

An' drank the beauties o' the morn; 
Then, rising, homewards happy hied. 

New pleasures in our bosoms born; 
The laddies pu'd the blossoms rare 

That fragrant burst along our way, 
An' crowned each guileless maiden fair 

A blushing Queen o' rosy May. 




15 



THE DYING PIPER. 



DONALD, my first born, come near me, I'm dying, 
And bring me my pipes till I bid them farewell ; 

I'll play them no more, for my breath now is flying, 
And this dust soon will mix with the sand of the dell. 

Loved pipes, my companions in mirth or in sorrow, 

In peace or in war we were ever as one; 
But fare ye well, for by dawn of the morrow 

My soul will have crossed to that mighty Unknown. 

How proud was I when, with gay ribbons streaming. 
You were placed in my hands by the Chief of our glen ; 

And my light boyish heart with bright hopes was o'er-brim- 
ming 
When I first played the slogan that rallied our men. 

I have 'woke the wild birds by thy notes in the morning; 

Thy pibroch's low croon's welcomed sleep to the vale ; 
Thro' war's bloody field, or in peace time's gay gath'ring, 

Thou ever-loved pipes thrilled the soul of the Gael. 

How oft have thy notes in the land of the stranger 

Soothed the exile's lone heart with the loved tunes of home — 

Brought glad tears in peace, firmed the step when in danger, 
Led his thoughts back to scenes where his feet fain would 
roam. 

i6 



Thy war-notes have rung o'er the tombs of the Pharaohs, 
O'er Russia's bleak hills, 'neath India's hot sun ; 

'Twas your clear, thrilling strains thrilled the souls of those 
heroes 
Whose ranks lay besieged on the field they had won. 

But, Donald, come nearer; take the pipes from thy father, 
And play me the slogan of the Chief of Glencoe, 

For the grim clan of Death round my bedside now gather, 
And I feel the damp breath of that conquering foe. 

But hush! I hear sounds as of armies rejoicing, 
And strains of sweet music now float thro' the air; 

And hills of rare beauty through the mist seem arising, 
And friends of the past gladly welcome me there. 

My pipes I bequeath thee, true son of thy father, 

May their strains as of yore warm the heart of the Gael ; 

1 go to my God, as our kin round me gather. 

Play the slogan once more of the Chief of Kintail. 




17 



" I WISH I HAD A MITHER! " 



" I wish I had a mither," 
Said wee orphan Tammie Todd, 
Like yon crood o' happy bairnies 
That play alang the road ; 
She wad wash m)^ face an' fingers, 

An' wad patch my ragged claes, 
An' I'm shair I'd hae in winter 

Some wee shoon to hide my taes. 



" I wish I had a mither 

For to kiss me when I greet, 
To cuddle to her bosie, 

An' to hear her sing sae sweet 
Like wee Nellie Logan's mither, 

Whae aye claps me on the heid, 
An' says, ' Ma heart's aye sorry 
For the lad whaes mither's deid.' 



I wish I had a mither — 

I wad nae sulk or froon 
When she bade me rin a message. 

Like wee stuck up Geordie Broon ; 

i8 



I wad rin an' dae her bidden, 
Leave my peerie, or my ba/ 

For I think a laddie ought to 
When he hears his mither ca'. 



My chums could ca' me nicknames — 
' Mammie's lambie,' ' Mither's sweet '- 
But I'd only smile sae cheery — 

Nicknames canna make yin greet. 
Yes, I wish I had a mither," 

Said wee orphan Tammie Todd, 
But his mither, puir wee laddie ! 

Lies aneath the kirkyaird sod. 




19 



THE MILLER'S SALLY." 



GOLDEN the broom on the upland way, 

Purple the glove in the fairy hollow ; 
Green are the fields where the lambkins play, 

Silver the stream that the fishers follow ; 
But they dinna hae ony charms for me 

As I wander alane, through the shady valley. 
To meet, perchance, by the trysting tree, 

A winsome wee maid — the miller's Sally ! 



Trembles the birk where the rich leaves hang 

With the rich notes o' the kingly starling; 
To me there is only one true sang — 

The lichtsome lilt o' my queenly darling! 
Oh, the rich blossom hangs on bush an' tree. 

An' the red fragrant rose scents the dewy valley ; 
But there's no a flow'r on bush or lea 

Can equal my love — the miller's Sally ! 



Silken the goons o' the Lady Jean ; 

Titles an' gold will come wi' her dower; 
Winning the smile I got but yestreen 

Frae the red lips o' the stately flower; 



Oh, I wish not rank — no, nor pedigree — 

Just a wee cosie hoose, in some kindly valley, 

If one dear lass will share it wi' me, 

An' that dear wee lass — the miller's Sally! 

But hush ! She comes ! O ! she comes to me, 

Tripping alang sae neat an' sae cheerie, 
Lilting a sang. O ! there canna be 

A sweeter maid than my ain true dearie! 
An' the sweetest part o' the simmer day 

That bringeth true rest to the hill an' the valley, 
Is the lovesome hour o' gloaming gray 

When I meet my own true darling Sally. 




COMRADES ALL. 



SHAKE, comrade, shake, for I can tell 

By that empty sleeve and that ugly scar, 
That you carried a gun as well as I, 

And was scorched by the leaden rain of war. 
Well, yes, I come every year in May 

And march 'neath the best old flag that waves; 
Our ranks grow thinner, and maybe I — 

But come ! fall in ! be my mate to-day, 
To scatter rare flowers o'er our comrades' graves. 

Fall in! What's that? No place for you ! 

While we marched with Grant, you followed Lee? 
Well, you shouldered a gun at the Southland's call — 

You claimed it your duty ; no more did we ; 
So, come, fall in ! be my mate to-day ; 

Nail higher the flag that o'er us waves ; 
Shoulder to shoulder, we're comrades all. 

To scatter the rare sweet bloom of May 
With a two-fold blessing o'er comrades' graves. 

Shoulder to shoulder they march away, 

Flowers to scatter and graves to trim ; 
Shoulder to shoulder, Blue and Gray, 

Feeble of step, and eyes that are dim ; 
Two by two ; fall in ; fall in ; 
Two by two, for the ranks grow thin. 
And the Southland echoes the Northern call : 
Fall in ! fall in ! We are comrades all." 



YOUTH'S HAPPY HAME. 



Crailing_, Roxburghshire. 

I, musing, lie where mighty lakes 

Roll boundless as the sea, 
An' tow'ring pine trees proudly wave 

In Western majesty; 
Tho' grand the beauties o' this land, 

My thoughts roam far frae here, 
Where bonnie Oxnam gurglin' rins 

To Teviot waters clear. 

Where rich green haughs, an' gowden braes, 

An' hills o' purple hue. 
That glints at dawn o' simmer day 

Wi' gems o' fresh'ning dew, 
Embrace the village o' my youth, 

A spot to me aye dear. 
Where Oxnam, bubblin', roarin', rins 

To Teviot waters clear. 

Rare, shady lanes, where wild flow'rs bloom. 

An' red-cheeked maidens stray 
To meet the callant o' their heart 
At 'oor o' gloamin' gray, 
Jouk oot an' in like fairy paths 

Frae plantins growin' near, 



23 



That raurm'ring stream, that tumblin' flows 
To Teviot waters clear. 

The cushie's croon, the whaup's shrill wheep, 

The laverock's liquid sang 
Float upv/ards frae the dowie muirs 

Or groves that richly hang 
Wi' blossoms sweet, or berries red. 

Frae bush o' whin an' brier. 
To where the Oxnam, gushing, joins 

Old Teviot waters clear. 

Wide entries girt wi' stately trees. 

Whose spreading branches throw 
A cooling shade o' quiv'ring leaves 

O'er passers to an' fro. 
Wind past the neat-kept kindly bields. 

That spot to me aye dear, 
Near Oxnam's rumblin', rowin' stream 

An' Teviot waters clear. 

Romantic village o' the Sooth ! 

Thy ruined ha's reveal 
The handiwork o' Cranstone bold. 

Who fought for Scotland's weal; 
Rare tales are hid within thy wa's 

O' battle-axe an' spear. 
When Oxnam ran red, red with bluid 

To Teviot waters clear. 



24 



The deep dark caves akng the scaur 

Beyond the Primrose brae, 
Where noble Covenanters hid 

In Scotland's darkest day, 
Loom thickly, screened wi' twining vines. 

Quaint brownie haunts appear 
A'bune the stream that gurglin' flows 

To Teviot waters clear. 

The Whinstane Brig, the Water Mill, 

The Auld Kirk, an' the Free 
The "Smidd'ie," "Schule," the Village Cross, 

The ancient Rowan Tree, 
Are pictures that I'll ne'er forget — 

Loved scenes I'll aye revere — 
Tho' far frae Oxnam's bonnie stream 

An' Teviot waters clear. 

I'm prood to think that I can claim 

A season o' my days, 
The happy, guileless years o' youth 

'Mang Crailing's bonnie braes ; 
An' weel I ken there waits for me 

A welcome that's sincere, 
Near yon rare stream, that rowin' rins 

To Teviot waters clear. 



25 



WHAT AULD FOLK SAY. 



I'VE heard the auld folk say 
"In winter days o' lang ago, 
When oor young cheeks wi' health did glow, 

An' fields as now lay white wi' snow, 
Times were harder than to-day. 

There were no trains to plunge alang 

If visiting we'd wish to gang; 

A bundle o'er oor shoothers flang; 
Shanks' naig we used that day." 

I've heard the auld folk say, 
"The fall-de-ralls you young folk wear 
Gars us auld bodies blink an' stare; 
'Twas rigs like them we had to scare 

The craws in oor young day ; 
At kirk the congregation sung, 
An' wi' their notes the rafters rung, 
But noo they scarcely move their tongue — 

They've singers that they pay." 

I've heard the auld folk say, 

"Och, ay, you young folk dinna ken 

26 



The lang, lang 'oors we laboured then, 

An' little siller we'd to spen' 
On trash in oor young day ; 

We were contented if we got 

Enough o' meal to boil the pot; 

Nae cake or shortbreid we e'er got, 
Except on New Year's day." 



I've heard the auld folk say, 

"Nae automobiles, or 'lectric cars,' 
Or bags o' gas to frichten Mars, 
That cairry folk up 'mang the stars. 

Had we in oor young day. 

Ye maun hae this, ye maun hae that, 
A bicykeel, a new spring hat, 
Altho' ye dinna earn yer sa't, 

Ye maun be fashion gay." 



I've heard the auld folk say, 

"We were taught when we were young 
When elders spake to baud oor tongue ; 
But noo it's changed ; the knowing young 

Has aye the formaist say; 

Oor parents were oor dearest care, 

Oor every joy was theirs to share 

But noo — ah, weel ! we'll say nae mair — 

We'll find that oot some day." 



27 



An' yet they smile an' say, 

When neebour folk drap in to spen' 
A canty 'oor, at oor fire-en', 
Thir's no the equal o' oor Jen' 

For wit or modestie ; 
An' though we say't that shouldna say't. 
Sic callants like oor Tarn an' Pate 
Are hard to find — are hard to bate — 

In onything they dae. 




28 



THE MISER O' TADMHOR BRAS. 



LONG and bony, 

Wrinkled and gray, 
Was the old miser 

Of Tadmhor brae; 
Dour and silent, 

Deep as a pool, 
Loved by nobody, 

Shunned as a ghoul ; 
And deep in his memory, smouldering, lay 
A horrid vision of man's young day. 

Leaky, shaky. 

Was his old cot; 
Windowless, doorless, 
Crumbling with rot, 
Who would fancy 

That ever he 
Once was as happy 
As you or me? 
If you'd share the visions of Miser Gray, 
Go nurse the cravings of youth's young day. 

At last men found, 

One cold, bleak day. 
The frozen body 

29 



Of Miser Gray; 
From the body 
A letter fell, 
Marked : " The finder 
My story tell."> 
And this is the story as read to me 
Of the selfish Paul and generous Lee : 

Two fine, bright lads — 

And twins were they — 
Adorned the home 

Of Major Gray. 
Happy their youth, 

Well taught were they, 
For rich as a prince 

Was Major Gray; 
Oh, that tears would come to my old dry een. 
As I delve in the past for what has been ! 

In the Springtime 

Of manhood's day. 
Father and mother 

Passed away; 
And at their graves 

The strife begun — ■ 
What parents deemed just 
Turned son 'gainst son; 
Fathers broad acres were willed to Lee, 
And all mother's money was left to me. 



30 



Thousands of pounds 

Mother left me, 
Still I was jealous 

Of Brother Lee; 
Generous far 

Was Brother Lee ; 
He offered to share 

His acres with me; 
But the curse of greed had entered my soul ; 
I spurned his gift, for I craved the whole. 

Lee loved a maid 

Beloved by me ; 
Both craved her hand; 

Her choice was Lee. 
A jealous fire 

Burned in my breast, 
And murd'rous dreams 

Robbed me of rest; 
Oh ! could I recall that hour again, 
Before I was branded a worse than Cain! 

My pen now halts 

At the deed I done — 
But search the loch 

Near Clifford's Run- 
Beneath the shade 

Of a willow tree 
Lie the whitened bones 



31 



Of Brother Lee. 
His bride went insane, and cursed she me, 
For she knew in her heart I murdered Lee. 

I sold the land, 

I sold the home; 
Gold, gold I had. 

For peace I'd roam ; 
Where'er I went. 

On land or sea. 
Was the white, wan face 

Of Brother Lee ! 
And in this old hut, since " sixty-three," 
I have hid from the world — but not from Lee ! 

'Neath the hearthstone 
Men found his gold; 
To touch the dross 

None was so bold; 
There it still lies 
Unto this day. 
Guarded by bones 
Of Miser Gray. 
For truth of this tale, you'll find to this day 
The ruins of the hut on Tadmhor Brae. 



32 



TOIL'S GRANDEUR. 



TOIL, and the arm grows strong- 
Sluggards are ever weak; 
Toil, and the earth gives forth 

Riches to those that seek; 
Toil, and the eye grows keen, 

Sure is the woodman's stroke ; 
With skill the craftsman molds 
Wonders from steel and rock. 
Not from the idler's dream 
Flows yonder miller's stream, 
Nor from the braggart's boast 
Gleams yonder guarded coast. 

Toil, and the heart grows light; 

Trembles the earth with song. 
Flowing in thrilling notes 

From the vast toiling throng; 
Up from the plains of waste 

Cities triumphant loom ; 
Where the fierce panther crouched 

Gardens of beauty bloom. 
Not from the shirker's moan 
Have our great v/astes been sown, 



33 



Nor from the coward's gun 
Did the fierce savasfe run. 



Toil, and the mind grows clear 

To the great work of God ; 
Flow'rs of contentment spring, 

Bright'ning our earthly road; 
Dearer becomes the land 

That we so proudly till, 
Stouter our bulwarks loom 

Daring invading skill. 
Not in the lawless hind 
Can we a patriot find. 
Nor with the godless band 
Dare we intrust our land ; 
Ever a nation's boasty 
Bulwarks around her coast. 
Ever a country's gain. 
Toilers with hands or brain. 




34 



SANDY'S THREE WISHES. 



An Old Story Told in Verse, With Variations. 

NEAR the foot o' Ben Mhor abode Sandy McNeil, 
Whose faither, the blacksmith, shod the horse o' the Deil- 
But it's no the bauld smith my rhyme has to deal wi'. 
But jist honest Sandy I gaed to the schule wi'. 



Sandy, yae bonnie nicht, I think in November — 

It's the tale, no the date, I need to remember — 

A wee drap in his pooch, a cure for lumbago, 

An' his braw sneeshin' mull steppit wast to Strathago. 



The road it's gey lang, an' mair, it is eerie, 
Withoot ere a hoose, or a milestane to cheer ye; 
But Sandy steppit oot, shoothers back, hold's a thistle, 
Wi' whiles a wee sup jist to weetin' his whistle 



But halt, Sandy, halt! "Govie Dick, what's acomin'? 
Is't a ghaist, or a witch, a fairy, or wummin?" 
Sandy whipped aff his cap, as the shade stept afore him. 
While a queer funny thrill creep, creepit a' owre him. 

35 



"Losh me," stuttered Sandy — noo Sandy's but human, 
An' his tongue loses pow'r in presence o' woman — 
"What's yer wants, bonnie lass, or should I say, fairy?" 
"Dinna fear," said the shade, "for I've no come to scare ye." 



"I hae heard" — an' her tongue burred wi' guid lowland doric- 
"O' yer fame that's gane forth, ay, as far as Glen Frolic, 
Yer brave deeds hae been sung in the courts o' Burr Barley, 
An' hae pleased the great mind o' the King Corn, Carley. 



"He called unto me — I was scoorin' the dishes — 
'Find this cheil, let him hae what he wants in three wishes ;' 
For, brave sir, ye maun ken I'm the King's eldest daughter, 
An' my tocher's the hills lying north o' Burr water." 



"My fame! losh be here! some mistake," mutters Sandy; 
"But three wishes jist noo comes uncommonly handy. 
Bonnie lass, yer royal dad is the genuine stuff — 
For the first, gie's the height o' Ben Nevis o' snuff." 



"That ye'll hae, honest man ! it's made by my brither," 
An' she blushed as she speered. "Guid sir, what's the ither?" 
"I'll jist tak, gin ye please," Sandy twirrled his cheevit, 
"The fill o' Loch Lomond o' guid auld Glenlevit." 

36 



"It is granted, bauld Scot ! I've a 'still' mang the heather : 
But stay! bide a wee! for ye still hae anither." 
"Anither!" quo' Sandy. "Mair snuff's a wee risky; 
Bonnie lass, I'll jist tak a wee drappie mair whiskey." 



It was early next morning that auld Geordie Lye, 
As he marketwards gaed, heard a lang gurgling sigh ; 
Sae following the soond, where the road takes a turn, 
He found his bauld freend wi' his head in the burn. 



As auld Geordie drew near he could hear Sandy say — 
An' the story is tauld mang the hills to this day — 
As he gurgled an' sputtered an' to the heath clung, 
"I want nae mair whiskey — drive tight hame the bung." 




37 



YESTERDAY. 



IT seems but yesterday- 
He held my willing hand ; 
The Summer waves did wayward play 
Out o'er the golden strand. 
My heart beat joyfulie 
With love's rare melodie; 
He whispered, and his eyes o' blue 
Gleamed wi' a love-light kind and true, 
"My own sweet darling Sue." 



Ah, yes ! but yesterday 

I answered, "Love, I'm thine"; 
With rose-bloom blushed the village brae. 
The lanes wi' jesamine; 
He held me to his heart — 
"Sweet love, we now must part; 
But soon, dear Sue, I'll come again 
To you, and home across the main, 
To home an' you again." 



It seems but yesterday 

I looked 'way o'er the sand, 

38 



Watching my true-love sail away 
Unto a foreign land ; 
His lips released a sigh 
As he kissed me good-bye; 
With aching heart I waved adieu — 
Dear Jack — brave Jack — my lover true- 
Adieu, dear heart ! adieu ! 



Ah, yes ! but yesterday 

I watched upon the sand ; 
Behind me loomed great rocks o' gray, 
The guardians o' my land ; 

The eve-tide drifted me 

A farewell melodic — 
A message from across the bar — 
From my own love that sailed afar — 
My love that sailed afar. 



It seems but yesterday 

I lingered near the shore ; 
Up o'er the strand the whirling spray, 
The storm king's message bore — 
Came with a mad'ning sweep 
From the great changing deep — 
A figure-head — a good ship's name — 
Was all that ever shorewards came — 
Was all that ever came. 



39 



Ah, sad, sad yesterday ! 

O, heart, poor heart o' mine ! 
The bloom lies withered o'er the brae; 
Low droops the jesamine; 
. The murm'ring o' the sea 
Seems but a dirge to me ; 
The sea-birds' wailing, longing sigh 
Seems some poor sailor's drowning cry- 
Some sailor's last "good-bye !" 




40 



BLINKS O' SPRINGTIME. 



SUNSHINE glints on dale an' hill, 
Silv'ry loch an 'wimplin' rill ; 
Rocks an' woods now echoing ring 
Wi' the melodies o' Spring. 

Knowes now crowned wi' buddin' broom, 
Hawthorns nod their fragrant plume ; 
Feathered songsters train the wing 
O' their nestlin's, for 'tis Spring. 

Richly clad the field and glen. 
Varied beauties deck the den; 
Creeping ivy, upward cling 
O'er the ruined wa's in Spring. 

Merry lambkins romp an' play 
'Mang the gowans on the brae. 
While the bonnie bairnies sing 
"Welcome, ever welcome, Spring!" 

Bursting buds deck bush an' tree ; 
Daisies clothe the grassy lea; 
Bee an' wasp noo whet their sting 
For the schoolboy in the Spring. 



41 



Bunnies jook noo, oot an' in, 
'Mang the bracken an' the whin', 
While auld Blinkie trims his wing 
For his night's sport in the Spring. 

Fairies haunt the bramble dell ; 
Maidens seek the wishing well, 
Where fancy future's shadows bring 
In the lovesome days o' Spring. 

Pairted lovers noo agree 
'Neath the auld-time trysting tree; 
Love's fond murm'rings ever cling 
To the gloamings o' the Spring. 

'Neath the twin oaks on the green 
Auld folk gossip noo at e'en ; 
Freenship's breathings ever bring 
Gladsome news in lichtsome Spring. 

Now smiling Nature's crowned anew 
Wi' virgin buds o' ev'ry hue, 
In homage kneels to Nature's King, 
Whose hand beautifies the Spring. 



42 



GOOD-BYE, DADDIE. 



IN childish kilt an' bonnet blue — 

The kilt his Daddie's tartan — 
He stood, a tiny mite o' eight, 

But brave as ony Spartan; 
No tears were in his een o' gray, 

His wee lips scarce did quiver, 
As he bid good-bye to Daddie d'^ar- 

Perhaps good-bye for ever ! 



"Daddie," he said, an' stood erect, 

"Dinna be feared for mither, 
For I will work just like a man 

For her an' bairnie brither ; 
I'll rise up sharp at five o'clock 

When mither's sleepin' cosie. 
An' curly-heided brither Rab 

is cuddlin' in her bosie. 



"I'll rin doon stairs an' roon the street, 

An' in to Grannie Napier's, 
An' get a hunner at the least 

O a' the mornirg papers. 



43 



I'll sell them a', yes, ev'ry ane, 
An' 'fore there's time to miss me, 

I'll coont my earns in mither's hand 
An' then — an' then she'll kiss me. 



"Vk/nen schule is oot, I winna stay 

To play at tigg or peerie. 
But run straight hame, an' mither help, 

Or play wi' oor wee dearie. 
When you come back, a brave V. C. — 

I ken you'll be ane Daddie, — 
You'l! grip my hand, just like a man's, 

For bein' sae guid a laddie." 

The Daddie hugged up to his breast 

The sturdy little Spartan, 
An' said, "Wee lad, there's nae mistake, 

You're worthy o' the tartan ! 
Good-bye ; take care o' mither, dear, 

An' you're wee bairnie brither; 
God grant the time will be but short 

When we're again thegether," 

The pipers blaw, the engine shrieks, 

All ready now for startin' ; 
Some laugh, some sing,, some joke, some cry- 

And all bewail the partin'. 



44 



Oor we lad watches till the train 
Spurts frae the crowded station, 

Bearing away brave men who'll guard 
The honor of a nation. 



Then, gulping back a weakling sob — 

For he's nae mair a laddie — 
He's noo his mither's only man, 

Since sayin', "Good-bye, Daddie." 
Then runs for hame : the door it hides 

From us the tiny Spartan, 
But we are sure he'll prove to be 

A credit to the tartan. 




45 



FLORA. 

WHEN the balmy winds o' Autumn 

Softly whisper o'er the braes, 
An' fields o' golden waving grain 

Proclaim it harvest days, 
I gang a-courting Flora — 
The shepherd's bonnie Flora — 
In the gloaming, 'mang the fragrant ricks o' clover. 

Like rippling music o' a rill 

Is Flora's voice to me. 
An' her lips they are sae tempting 

That I'm forced their sweets to pree; 
Sae I maun see my Flora — 
The shepherd's lassie Flora — 
In the gloaming, 'mang the fragrant scented clover. 

Her hair in nut-brown ringlets hang 

Aroon a queenly broo ; 
Two perfect rows o' pearly teeth 

Shine through her tempting mou'. 
A dimpled chin has Flora — 
The shepherd's daughter Flora — 
An' I'll meet her in the gloamin' 'mang the clover. 

46 



Altho' her feet — her weel shap't feet — 

Are cased in heavy shoon, 
An' 'tho' her best o' dresses 

Is a common wincey goon, 
A queenly form has Flora — 
The shepherd's darling Flora — 
An' I'll press her to my bosom 'mang the clover. 

Altho' she is a bonnie lass 

She's naught but modestie, 
An a' the laddies in the glen 

Just wish that they were me 
To gang acourting Flora — 
The shepherd's guileless Flora — 
In the gloamin' 'mang the fragrant ricks o' clover. 




47 



CHANGES O' NATURE. 



MY heart was light, an' my thoughts were gay; 

Full o' joy for me seemed the morrow, 
As I watched the burnie wend its way 

Through the fruitful dales o' Yarrow ; 
No ripples rise on its silv'ry crest, 

Save where trout, in their glee, were dancing; 
And happy thoughts filled my youthful breast 

As I lay on the banks romancing. 

Ah ! youth's bright dream, 
Smooth glides thy way, 

Like a winding stream 
On a sunny day. 

Heavy my heart, an' I see but gloom 

On the brow o' the coming morrow, 
As I watch the burnie fret an' fume — 

Fit mate for me in my sorrow! 
Swollen an' black its troubled crest. 

Save where lightning's darts are flashing, 
An' the storms o' anguish tear my breast 

While the thunder's around me crashing. 

Grief's troubled dream, 

Rough rolls thy way, 
Like a swollen stream 

On a stormy day. 

48 



LADDIE O' THE SEA. 



CURLY headed laddie, 

Gie to me your hand, 
The life-lines show you'll wander 

Far in many a land ; 
Wave-rocked, bonnie laddie. 

Born upon the sea. 
Wild winds soothed your slumbers. 

Mermaids crooned to thee. 



Rocked upon the ocean 

By Neptune's royal command, 
And the deep sea graces 

Kissed an' lined your hand ; 
Mighty was the cradle, 

A queen upon the sea ; 
Ah, my bonnie laddie, 

Fortune smiles on thee. 



Thro' the ice-rock barriers 
Of the frozen way. 

You will carry tidings 
In your manhood's day ; 

49 



East an' west you'll travel, , 

At the torrid zone 
They'll hail the noble vessel 

Of Neptune's foster-son. 

Peace aye be your motto ; 

God will be your guide; 
Fav'ring winds will waft thee 

O'er the Ocean's tide; 
Many a hand will greet thee, 

Many a mother's e'e 
Will gladden at the tidings 

You carry o'er the sea. 

Many a prayer will follow 

In your good ship's wake ; 
Many a lad will join thee. 

Laddie, for your sake ; 
Many a daring venture 

Is hid behind that e'e. 
Wee curly headed darling, 

Laddie o' the sea. 



50 



FOR QUEEN AND COUNTRY. 



A HIGHLAND dame stood at her door 

And watched her youngest bairn, 
In kilt and plaid and jacket red 

Turn from the soldier's cairn — 
A cairn that told — told by its height 

Of many gallant men 
Who had for Queen and Country left 

The comforts of their glen. 

With martial stride and fearless eye 

Three sons had gone before, 
And left her with an aching heart 

Beside her lowly door; 
For Britain's glory they went forth — 

A glory that hath ta'en 
The pride of many a Scottish home 

For many a bloody plain. 

Her eldest fell in the Soudan; 

At Dargai Leslie died ; 
At Modder River Tom was slain 

By gallant Wauchope's side; 
And now her youngest, and her all. 

In kilt and plaid hath gone ; 



51 



The Queen gets one more soldier bold- 
The cairn another stone. 

She watches till his stalwart form 

Is lost beyond the trees, 
And then she turns within her cot, 

And, falling on her knees, 
Prays to the Guardian of us all 

To favor her last one. 
Who knows his brothers' bloody fate 

Beside stern Duty's gun. 

Her hair is white with many cares. 

Her heart's been cruelly riven. 
But Queen and Country needed men 

And she her all hath given ; 
And yet she wonders — simple dame ! — ■ 

At nations, great and wise. 
Who cannot for man's brotherhood 

Some nobler plan devise. 

We wonder all, and yet we rush 

Aye ready to the sword. 
And deeper, wider yawns the wound 

That needeth Wisdom's word ; 
And mothers weep for fearless sons 

Who love the martial row. 
And stretches far the battle line 

While cairns they larger grow. 



52 



BROOM BLOSSOM. 



Sent frae the Braes o' Yarrow by Miss Phemie Pennycook, of 
Hawick, 1900. 

BROOM blossom, broom blossom, 

Golden bloom sae rare, 
Fragrant wild flow'r, royal o' hue, 
Thy rich tassels, nodding, drew 

A sweet maiden fair — 
Lithe o' limb an' clear o' eye — 
Up the steeps where you grew high 

Above the rocks sae bare. 

Broom blossom, broom blossom, 

Surely she pleased you 
When she knelt, an' kindly brake 
You away, for friendship's sake. 

From where you tempting grew; 
Her dimpled hand did you not kiss? 
Yea, surely 'twas a moment's bliss 
■^ That deepened your rare hue ! 

Broom blossom, broom blossom, 
Frae Nature's grandest scenes, 

My border land romantic, 

Beyond the broad Atlantic, 
Where many a poet gleans 

53 



There's no land can be grander 
Wherever I may wander 
Or whatever intervenes. 

Broom blossom, broom blossom, 

Frae famous Yarrow braes, 
Pu'd near that historic stream 
Where Hogg romantic oft did dream 

And wove immortal lays ; 
But he ne'er had a maid sae fair. 
For friendship's sake, to bravely dare 
Such steep an' rocky ways. 

Broom blossom, broom blossom, 

As she braved for me — 
You saw her smile, as I have not, 
With satisfaction, that she got 

To send across the sea 
A piece o' broom I longed to own ; 
I'll frame it now to look upon — 

A Hameland memory. 

Broom blossom, broom blossom. 

May her whose kindly hand 
Pu'd you near Ettrick waters 
Be favored 'mong the daughters 

Of Scotia's Borderland; 
O'er rocks be aye victorious. 
An' reach the heights aye glorious, 
Where all is pure an' grand. 



54 



DYED EGG DAY. 



Dae ye mind in bairnhood's day, 
In tliat auld land far away, 
How we rowed adoon the brae 
On Dyed Egg Day? 

Hand in hand we'd merry gang. 
Lads an' lassies in yae thrang; 
Braes were never steep nor lang 
On Dyed Egg Day. 

Without bannet, shoon, or cap, 
Oot o' breath we'd reach the tap. 
Where oor daffin scared the whaup 
On Dyed Egg Day. 

At the starter's ''Three, away !" 
We wad row adoon the brae, 
Oor eggs, green, red, or blae. 
On Dyed Egg Day. 

Laughin' at each ither's skill 
As we tumbled owre the hill. 
For o' fun we had oor fill 
On Dyed Egg Day. 



55 



Na, we'll no forget the days 
When we tum'led owre the braes, 
An' tore an' stained oor claes, 
On Dyed Egg Day. 

When, tired, we a' ran hame 
An' hung oor heids wi' shame, 
Tell't oor mithers that the blame 
Was on Dyed Egg Day. 




56 



TO A BUD IN MARCH. 



WEE, tender bud, why leave your bield? 

Still chilly breathes the air ; 
The snow has not yet left the field ; 

The forest's bleak and bare. 

I ken you're cheering to the een, 

But still I'm laith to see 
Thy tender stem, where naething green 

Yet marks the dreary lea. 

The sun's warm rays the stream might thaw, 

But night airs still are keen. 
And treach'rous March might blighting blaw 

And blot ye frae oor een. 

Was it some wee bird's warbling lay, 

Or elf folk o' the stream. 
Who, piping on their reeds o' spray, 

Awoke ye frae your dream? 

Or did some sunbeam lose its way. 

An' straying near your bed. 
Warmed your wee stemlet wi' its ray, 

An' raised your tender head? 



57 



False are those signs ! 'tis not yet Spring ! 

Creep 'neath your sod again, 
An' sleep till swallows trim their wing 

Upon our gable vane ! 

Ah, wee bit bud ! I thee portray 

A likeness kin to man, 
Who, warmed by fickle Fortune's ray, 

Freeze ere their Spring's began ! 




58 



ODE TO THE QUEEN. 



Inscribed to the Officers and Members of Detroit St. Andrew's 
Society, on the Queen's Diamond Jubilee, June 21 st, 1897, 

'TIS Britain's Queen, a goodly Queen 

That's honored wide to-day, 
An' hill-fires gleam an' banners stream 

In tribute o' her sway. 
For lang she's reigned an' weel she's reigned 

O'er subjects leal an' free, 
An' a' the Earth holds holiday 

On this grand Jubilee. 



Her praise is sung in ev'ry tongue 

Where'er a Briton's been; 
An' nane can e'er the worth gainsay 

O' Britain's goodly Queen. 
For lang she's reigned an' weel she's reigned 

O'er hearts on land an' sea. 
An' God thro' peace looks kindly down 

Upon her Jubilee. 

An' we hae met in freenship's ring — 

For freenship rules to-day — 
To drap oor mite in Tribute's cup 



59 



Where starry banners sway. 
For lang she's reigned an' weel she's reigned 

Beloved on land an' sea, 
An' frae oor hearts her worth we'll sing 

On this rare Jubilee. 

Then here's a health, good noble Queen, 

A health to thee an' thine, 
Tho' roaming far we'll ne'er forget 

The days o' Auld Lang Syne; 
For lang you've reigned an' weel you've reigned 

Wi' love an' purity, 
An' a' mankind wi' love reveres 

Your Diamond Jubilee! 




60 



DADDIE'S COMIN'. 



DADDIE'S comin', my wee lambie, 

Frae the hill ; 
For the sun is sinkin' rosie 
Where his sheep is cuddlin' cosie 

By the rill. 

An' it's time wee bairns were sleepin', 

Sleepin' soon. 
Come awa, my toddlin' maidie, 
I will hap ye wi' my plaidie, 

Cuddle doon. 

Steek yer een an' sleep sae bonnie — 

Daddie's near; 
He is comin' through the hollie 
Wi' auld tousy, kindly Collie, 

My wee dear. 

Hush-a-bye, yer Daddie's comin' 

Up the brae ; 
The sun is noo clud-hidden, 
An' frae the West has ridden 

Gloamin' gray. 

6i 



An' the Daddies fondly gether 

Wi' their ain, 
Where the mithers knit their stockin,' 
Or some, like me, are rockin' 

A wee wean. 

Sae close yer een, my lambie ; 

Sleep ye soon; 
Daddie's here an' supper's ready, 
But ye've gotten yours, my leddy, 

Sae lie doon. 

Hoots ! ye little waukrife lassie ! 

Close yer een ! 
I'm fair jealous o' my laddie — 
Yes, yer hav'rin' huggin' Daddie — 

Sic a scene ! 

'Stead o' sleepin' ye are laughin' 

On his knee. 
An' withoot ae crumb o' feelin' 
Ye are a' the kisses stealin' 

Frae puir me. 

Na, na ! I winna tak' ye ! 

Sic a mou' ! 
Come awa', then, to my bosie — 
Come awa' an' cuddle cosie, 

My wee doo. 

62 



THE SILVER-HAIRED LADY. 



YES, lads ! 'Tis a letter from someone to me, 
A silver-haired lady that lives o'er the sea ; 
I'll read it, for maybe there's someone that's here 
Has somebody waiting — has someone that's dear, 
Whose heart's ever longing to welcome again 
A wandering laddie from far o'er the main. 

"My laddie, dear laddie, since faither has gane, 

I, wearying, sit by the ingle alane, 

At knitting or spinning, my fingers aye stray, 

My thoughts ever roam to my bairn far away. 

Your playthings, an' schule-books, your brownie land lore 

Tell tales o' your childhood I oft linger o'er. 

I watch oor auld "postie," an' feel my bluid thrill. 

As he climbs the wee stile, 'tween oor hoose an' the mill. 

I slip ben the room, no to let the man ken 

I hae followed his step since he entered the glen, 

I tremble a' owre, wi' a joy that's half fear 

As he cries oot, "A letter frae ane ye lo'e dear." ' ! 

Ah, laddie, dear laddie, it's little ye ken, 
The guid that ye dae wi' ilk letter ye sen', 
The brae sides in simmer far bonnier seem, 

63 



The bleak hills in winter, wi' bricht fancies gleam, 

E'en the wee birdies trill in lichtsomer key, 

I believe that they ken o' my bairn owre the sea. 

I'm nae hand wi' big words, no shair that I spell 
The wee anes a richt, but I'm shair that they tell, 
There's a wee thackit hoose, i' the lug o' a glen, 
Whaur whaups whirl roon i' their flicht to the ben, 
Whaur a welcome's aye shair — dinna linger for fame, 
For bats sune will build i' your forefaithers' hame." 

Are there ony amang ye by writing can cheer 

Some silver-haired lady or somebody dear, 

Some thoughtless wild laddie, that tarries through shame? 

Or someone too busy to think o' their hame? 

A few simple words wi' a pencil or pen 

Micht brichten life's roadway o' someone ye ken. 




64 



A BAIRN'S AMBITION. 



WHEN me grows up an' be's a man, 
An' works for heaps o' money, 

An' smokes a pipe, like Uncle Dan, 
Me'll buy a crutch for Grannie — 
Won't that be grand? 

Then she can roam the lanes wi' me, 
An' gather nice, sweet posies ; 

For me's of'en heard her say 

She loves the wild, wild rosies — 
They smell so grand. 

Poor Grannie's lame, an' sits an' sits 
In her chair near the windae; 

Sometimes she sews, sometimes she knits, 
Every day but Sunday — 
An' then she reads. 

My mammie says if she was rich 

As her big brither Dannie, 
She would get a cooshened crutch 

For oor ain dear wee Grannie — 
That would be grand. 

65 



Poor daddie he was drowned at sea, 

An' Uncle Dan he's married, 
An' says his wife she winna be 

Wi' his auld mither worried — 
That's my Grannie. 

But when me grows as big a man 

As Robin Gray, the caddie, 
I'll hae a ship — I'll ca'd the Swan — 

An' Grannie '11 be a lady — 
That will be grand. 

An' mammie, too, she is so good. 
An' works so hard for money 

To get good clo'es, an' nice good food 
For her an' me, an' grannie — 
She's awfully good. 

O, yes; me'll soon be big, so big! 

Me's six years old nex' Monday — 
T'anks ; me'll put them in me's penny pig- 

Me never buys no candy — 

Me save them all for Grannie. 



66 



A COAST LULLABY. 



HUSHABY ma bairnie, hushaby, 
An' I'll croon ye a bonnie sang. 
The wind sobs loud, an' the waves roll high. 

An' tae sea yer faither maun gang. 
Tae sea yer faither maun gang, ma bairn, 

P'or he's mate o' the lifeboat Sue, 
An' oor daily breid in the storm he maun earn — 
Baith him and his hardy crew. 

Then hush-hushaby-by, ma bonnie chairm, 

Cuddle tae ma bosie, ma doo. 
Keen is the e'e, an' strong is the airm 
O' the mate o' the lifeboat Sue, 

The white witch rides on the waves the nicht. 

An' cheers the mad song o' the gale, 
An' screechs in her rage at the lichthoose licht 

That warns o' her treach'rous trail. 
Hush! what soond is that, ma bairn? 

It's a big gun's mighty roar; 
There's a ship in distress aff the seaman's cairn. 
An' they're asking help frae the shore. 

Then hush-hushaby-by, ma bonnie chairm; 

Yer faither kens his duty noo ; 
Guid Lord, oh ! give strength to the heart and airm 
O' the mate o' the lifeboat Sue. 

67 



Guid Lord ! help them a' aff the seaman's cairn, 
Safe, safe tae oor shelt'ring quay — 

Baith the wrecked an' the lads wha bravely earn 

Oor breid on the stormy sea. 
Hush ! hush ! I hear a mighty cheer — 

"Hurrah ! for the lifeboat Sue" ; 
Tae mony a hame this nicht they're dear 
Baith the mate and his gallant crew. 

Noo sleep, sleep, ma hinny, ma bonnie chairm, 

Cuddle tae ma bosie, ma doo; 
Ye'll sune be as big an' as strong o' airm 
As the mate o' the lifeboat Sue. 




68 



A DREAM O' JED. 



LAST night I dreamed a grand, grand dream, 

As lying on my soldier bed, 
I dreamed I wandered o'er again 

The bonnie, bonnie banks o' Jed. 
'Twas simmer time, the fields were green, 

An' lanes wi' flowers o' every hue 
Breathed perfumes sweet, an' oh, my heart 

Drank in the beauties that I lo'e. 



I thought I wandered to the tree 

Whose leaf-clad branches kindly spread, 
A shady bower for lovers true 

That roam the bonnie banks o' Jed. 
My Jean was there — her slae-black een 

Flashed me a welcome frae the heart. 
I pressed her cherry lips to mine. 

An' vowed nae mair frae her to part. 



Her nut-brown hair hung waving free, 
Blawn by the saft winds o' the west, 

Amang the curly locks o' gold 

That crooned the laddie she lo'ed best. 



69 



Her roonded cheeks, red as the rose 
That blooms beneath the sky o' June, 

Were dimpled wi' a winning smile 

That made my heart wi' gladness stoon. 

We wandered, arm in arm, among 

The bloom upon the "Sunny Brae," 
An' pu'd the fragrant cups o' gold. 

An' strewed them a' alang oor way. 
The river murmured clear an' sweet, 

The bushes throbbed wi' mellow song. 
While love and fancy pictured scenes 

When right seemed ever with the strong. 

The wild, rude scenes of long ago, 

When Dacre led fierce England's pride 
Across the Border, to lay waste 

The hallans o' fair Teviotside. 
Loud rang the slogan o' oor sires, 

As forth they charged with sword and spear 
To brave the conquest-loving hosts — 

"On ! on to victory ! 'Jethart's here !' " 



When bang! bang! and a cry "To guns!" 
Me from a dream o' Jed awoke. 

To charge a prowling, treach'rous race, 
Whose power was yet the Tyrant's yoke. 



70 



Onwards we rushed, and I am sure 
Above the conquering Yankies' cheer, 

A Border slogan could be heard — 
"On, on to vict'ry ! 'Jethart's here !' " 



Yes ! Jethart's here ! Where'er the call 

Of Freedom stirs heroic fires, 
You'll find — and ever to the front — 

Descendants of unconquered sires. 
With others o' that dauntless race, 

Whose land, tho' small, will ever be 
Known as the foremost o' the Earth, 

That's slogan rang for Liberty, 




71 



THE OPEN DOOR. 



THROW open wide the world's door 

To men who bravely dare 
The terrors of the flood and fire, 

Or fiends of earth and air; 
The age is past for man to fence 

A patch of earth's domain, 
And fancy God gave him the spot 

Where he supreme can reign. 

Stand back, ye loungers at the door, 

With never-ceasing wail ! 
Block not the way of men who dare — 

'Tis such as you who fail. 
If there are dangers far ahead. 

The dangers we must see, 
And if there's treasure we will share 

It with a hand that's free. 

Our fathers pioneered the west, 

They scorned the savage wrath. 
And dared the raging elements 

To block their foremost path; 
So we, their sons, will brook no foe 

That tries to bar our way ; 
'Tis progress urges us, and we 

Know naught but to obey. 



72 



To them who dare the earth gives up 

The jewels of her heart, 
And them who dare must and will have 

For all an open mart. 
We've grain to sell, we've gold to lend, 

We will exchange or buy, 
And as we're eager for the best. 

All markets we must try. 

And there is still a nobler cause 

To urge the power that's brave — 
To crush the bloody hand that makes 

Of brother man a slave. 
We wish for peace, but will not shirk 

The duty of the free — 
A duty that our sires bequeathed. 

Who gave us liberty. 

Then open wide the world's door. 

Fling up the clasping bar, 
No narrow entrance let it be. 

But let it swing afar; 
We see no failure, for we know 

It is the Great God's plan 
To bring together, hand-in-hand, 

The family of man. 



73 



HE FELL FOR LIBERTY. 



HE came from the banks of the Aragon 

To a country strange and new, 
But shouldered a gun 
Like a soldier's son, 

And marched with our boys in blue. 
He smoked our pipe, and he shared our watch, 

For a comrade true was he, 
With a heart aye light, 
And an eye aye bright, 

As he marched for Liberty. 

He was ready aye at the bugler's call, 

Tho' he dreamed of home afar. 
Of an aged pair, 
And a maiden fair. 

Away in his loved Navarre. 
He sang the song of his Fatherland, 

That rang of true chivalry, 
And his eagle eye 
Flashed a wild defy 

As he fought for Liberty. 



74 



Yes, he was my mate for many a day 

Thro' the bloody fields of war; 
And no heart more true 
To our lads in blue 

Than this hero from Navarre; 
And 'twas by my side he, fighting, fell, 

When our throats rang " Victory !" 
'Neath that Southern sky 
Where so many lie 

For the cause of Liberty, 

Oh! I loved this lad from the Aragon, 

Tho' his tongue was strange to me; 
The clasp of his hand 
Was the linking band 

That joins the hearts of the free. 
I'll shoulder my old gun once again — 

A relic of victory — 
And fire o'er the grave 
Of my comrade brave 

Who fell for man's liberty. 



75 



RARE HARVEST TIME. 



RICH harvest days are here! 

O, let us roam again 
Thro' sylvan lanes and pleasant plains 

Where droops the golden grain — 
Thro' groves of spreading trees 

Where feathered warblers trill, 
And bells o' blue, a-gleam with dew. 

Nid-nods unto the rill. 

A-roaming, two by two, 

A lassie and a lad. 
With lightsome lays the season praise. 

The days that make us glad ; 
The orchard trees bend low; 

They wile us near, tho' mute; 
With hearts aflow and cheeks aglow, 

We pree the ripe red fruit. 

O, bonnie harvest days! 

That rare time o' the year 
When berries red hang overhead. 

When fairies haunt the mere; 
A-thro' the fields we go 

To gather in the gold, 
That we will store, and linger o'er 

When we are growing old. 

76 



OOR WILLIE. 



Inscribed to Wm. Mylne^ a Popular Member of St. Andrew's Society, 
Detroit, Michigan, 



A DROLL chiel' lives in oor toon — 

I'm sure ye ken him weel — 
He's famous 'mang his neebours as a painter, 
An' for a sang he taks the croon — 

He's humour tae the heel — 
He beats Rab Gibbs, St. Mungo's great precentor. 

He'd mak' ye dee o' lauchin' 

When he sings a comic sang, 
For, losh, man! he's jist perfect in his actin'; 
An' if yer sair for fouchen 

Wi' the day time's drivin' thrang, 
Jist hear him, an' yer ready for a fechtin. 

Hear him sing the sangs o' Hame — 

Man, he can sing them fine ! 
Ye'd roar an' lauch tae hear him sing " Mac Fadyin' 
Wi' " Bonnie Doon " or " Maggie Graham " 

He'd blur up baith yer een — 
I tell ye, man, oor Willie, he's a guid yin. 



77 



He'll imitate ilk bodie 

In "Auld Cronies o' Mine"; 
As I said afore, the man's a born actor, 
An' at rend'ring " Tamson's Smiddie," 

Ye'd think he was the yin 
That coorted Auld Robin's bonnie dochter. 



Ye ocht tae see him trip, man, 

The licht fantastic toe ; 
He's as yauld as a buck-flae owre a blanket; 
At tellin' o' a story, man. 

He's the capstane o' the row; 
For fish tales wi' the forrnaist he is ranket. 



It's no jist in his singin' ; 

He is famous in his clan ; 
His warks o' brain deck many a wa' an' mantel ; 
An' in gall'ries they are hingin'. 

For the critics' glow'rin' scan 
A perfect " creattibater's " 'neath his cantel. 



Oor Willie, withoot braggin', 

'Mang best o' men can sit. 
His freenly pow, tho' bare, shields lots o' wit, man. 
Lang may his tongue keep waggin'. 

An' his cunning hand be fit — 
For kindly deeds he'll never be forgot, man. 

78 



Then here's a health tae Willie ! 

Lang may he ever sing 
" Auld Grannie's Pooch," " The Cronies " or " Mac Fadyin." 
Three stirring cheers for Willie 

That'll gar the rafters ring — 
Let the warld ken " Oor Willie " is a guid yin ! 




79 



THE SAILOR'S FAREWELL. 



He: 

FAVORING winds now blow, dear lass, 

And ready we're for sea; 
At Duty's call I go, dear lass, 

Far, far frae hame an' thee. 
She: 

I dread your gaun away, dear lad, 

Sae far frae hame an' me; 
A sailor's life's sae rough, brave lad. 

An' dangers haunt the sea. 
He: 

Keep up your heart, my ain dear lass, 

You needna fear for me. 
For dangers are as thick, dear lass. 

On land as on the sea. 
She: 

Your mither will grieve sair, my lad, 

When you are far away; 
An' she's had cares enoo, my lad ; 

Weave nae mair hairs o' gray. 
He: 

One voyage to the " Cape," dear lass, 

I'll then hae gold enoo 
To cheer my mither's heart, dear lass. 

And wed the lass I lo'e. 



80 



She: 

Maybe at ev'ry port, dear lad, 

A sweetheart waits for thee; 
Maybe they'll wile your love, dear lad, 

Away frae hame an' me. 

He: 

I hae nae lass but you, my love, 

Nae ither lips I pree; 
Sae dinna let such thoughts, my love, 

Drift in your heart 'boot me. 

She: 

I never doobt your love, dear lad, 

I ken you're true to me ; 
But still my heart is wae, my lad. 

When you are on the sea. 

He: 

My thoughts o' hame an' thee, my love, 

Where e'er we reef a sail; 
One kiss — one more for luck, my love — 

Farewell, dear heart, farewell! 

She: 

I'll pray for you, my ain dear lad. 

An' watch each hame-bound sail; 
My heart is yours for aye, my lad. 
Farewell, dear one, farewell! 



8i 



PIPER WINTER. 



BRAW auld, Piper Winter, kilt an' plaid o' snaw, 
Keepin' frail folk pechin, wi' his furious blaw ; 
See him cock his bannet, jist a wee ajee, 
Pipes flung owre his shoother, striding gallantlie. 

Raidin' Piper Winter, a' the folk in toon 
Steeks thir doors an' windows, 'gainst the rattlin' loon; 
But he skirls the looder, shakin' wi' his din, 
Chimneys, wa's an' rafters, tryin' to get in. 

Lichtsome Piper Winter, tryin' for to pree 
Bairnies that are jookin' 'roon aboot his knee; 
Noo he'll grip a lassie, noo a lad he'll throw, 
Tintin' cheeks an' noses wi' a rosy glow. 

Mighty Piper Winter, garrin' big linns roar, 
Wi' his icy breathings, welding stream an' shore; 
Raising dykes o' danger wi' his giant feet, 
King o' hill an' valley, lord o' park an' street. 

Artist Piper Winter, thro' the forest goes 
Weaving fleecy laces o'er the naked boughs ; 
Tracing on the windows quaint enchanted bowers, 
Hanging from the bridges chains o' snowy flowers. 

82 



Kindly Piper Winter, rowin' in his plaid 
Some wee hameless bairnie, some forsaken maid; 
Soothing as he faulds them frae the World's care, 
Crooning 'till they fancy 'tis a mother's pray'r. 

Guardian Piper Winter, in the paths you go — 
Maidens' cheeks bloom rarer, roses sweeter blow; 
For you kill the canker wi' your biting colds, 
An' keep a' things cosy wi' your snowy folds. 

Welcome, then, Auld Winter, for the guid you dae, 
Makin' bairnies happy, shieldin' glen an' brae ; 
Stirring men to action wi' your thrilling tune, 
Striving, laughing Winter, persevering loon! 




83 



'KIRSTY'S ROBIN." 



A Romance in Hamespun. 
ROBIN TYNTOCK, "Kirsty's Robin," 
Left his loom an' gaed aroamin' — 
Left his true love sobbin,' sobbin', 

To cross the deep blue sea. 
Bid her farewell in the gloamin', 
When the hedge-rows were a-bloomin/ 

An' the gowans deck't the lea. 

"I'll come again," murmurs Robin, 
"When the hawthorn lanes are buddin' ; 
Dry your een, an' cease your sobbin', 

Wait one year an' a day — 
One short year, an' then I'll gladden 
My true love — my brown-haired maiden- 
One short year an' a day." 

Kirsty waited, weary waited ; 
Slowly seemed the time in passin' ; 
By the sea-side, watched an! waited, 

One long year an' a day. 
Days glide by; soon months are passin'. 
Since the tryste time. Robin, hasten — 

Oh, why, lad, this delay? 



Three months more, an' then came Jamie. 
"Kirsty lassie, quit yer greetin'; 
Say the word an' ye can hae me; 

I'll aye be kind to thee." 
Kirsty's fingers sought her knittin'; 
Turned to Jamie, who was sittin'. 

Idly sittin' 'gainst a tree — 

Stilled her grief, an' glanced at Jamie, 
Who sat 'gainst the tree a-smilin' — 
Careless, guid-for-naething Jamie, 

Wi' the laughin' roguish e'e — 
Thought o' him, perhaps, a-sailin' — 
Then looked seaward thro' the pailin', 

But no sign upon the sea. 

Turned again to lazy Jamie, 

An' said, "Weel, lad, gin yer willin' 

For to take me you can ha'e me ; 

A true wife I'll be to you. 
For there's nae use in bewailin' 
Owre a lad that went a-sailin' 

An' forgot a love sae true." 

Where was Robin? Was he sailin'? 
Was he other lands a-roamin'? 
Was he other maids beguilin', 
Wi' his frank an' winning way, 

85 



That he forgot the gloamin', 
When the hedgerows were a-bloomin' 
Wi' sweet blossoms o' the May? 

From the belt o' Fighting Otter 
Hang the auburn locks o' Robin — 
Tells a tale o' fight an' slaughter — 

Tells the cause o' his delay. 
Near a northwest settler's cabin 
Lie the bones o' Kirsty's Robin, 

An' no coward's bones are they. 

On the night o' Kirsty's weddin' 
Wi' the happy lichtsome Jamie, 
An' she's never rued that weddin', 

I had come frae owre the sea. 
Sorry tidings I had wi' me — 
The last message Robin ga'e me — 

But it still remains wi' me. 




86 



TO AN ELOCUTIONIST. 



After Hearing Miss Elizabeth Baker Recite at a St. Andrew's BtjRNsr^ 
Gathering in Detroit Opera House. 

LIKE the musical notes of a Summer's breeze 

As they murmuring- float thro' the green-robed trees, 

Sparkling and clear as a diamond set, 

Silvery toned as a rivulet. 

She binds us all with one great thought 

As it leaps inspired from the gifted throat 

As she feels and tells — such is true art — 

Of the sacrifice of another's heart. 



Her bosom heaves with passion's throb — 

Her soul unfetters one great sob — 

An echo that tells the company 

Of her heart's great power of sympathy. 

Her dark eyes gleam ; her rich cheeks glow 
With a rarer tint, as the gifted flow 
Of words that tell of a hero's fate — 
Of a mother's love — or a rival's hate — 
Floats thro' her lips in a spreading swell ; 
Leaps inspired from the mind's great well, 

87 



Soft and sweet, as the wood dove's call, 
Or strong as a bounding water-fall. 

Long may she live to sing and tell 

Of men and maids who bravely fell — 

Of kindly deeds of lovers true — 

Tales of the heart that's ever new — 

And coming years will find her name 

'Neath a Queenly wreath at the throne of Fame. 




88 



WHERE HEATHER BLOOMS. 



OH, give me the hills and the valleys ! 

There wi' my sheep I will roam! 
I love not your towns, wi' their alleys; 

Where the heather blooms, there is my home. 

Away wi' your halls o' gay revels, 
They leave on my mind but a gloom; 

In your streets I am shadowed wi' evils — 
I'll away where the heather bells bloom. 

You are famed for your grand architecture ; 

You have parks that are wonders of art; 
Give me the wild woodlands of Nature, 

And the hills that are dear to my heart; 

Oh, grand are your art-flowing fountains, 
Where gracefully glides the proud swan, 

But give me the clear lochs of our mountains, 
Where drink the royal roe buck and fawn. 

I have drank from the goblet of pleasure — 
I have echoed the laugh of the fool — 

I've gained by the price a rare treasure, 
A lesson from Wisdom's wide school ; 



Your maidens are fair and enticing, 

Their beauty oft dazzles my een,' 
And their wit to a rustic's surprising — 

But my heart is for none but my Jean. 

I yearn for that auld mountain shieling — 
I crave for no mansions of stone — 

I long for yon peat-tinted ceiling 

And mother's fond arms round her son ; 

Sae farewell to your towns and their alleys ! 

Nae mair 'mang your beauties I'll roam ; 
And all hail to the hills an' the valleys 

Where the heather blooms — there is my home ! 




90 



ANNIE. A LOVE SONG. 



WHEN dew-drops are falling 

In simmer's lang gloaming, 
I through the rich meadows 

Lilt lightly away; 
I hear the maids calling, 

Their kye frae aroaming. 
Before nicht's dark shadows 

Loom over the brae. 



Where beds o' green bracken 

The hillsides adorning, 
My lassie's rare song-notes 

Are wafted to me ; 
The song birds that waken 

In simmer's fair morning, 
The glen wi' their flute throats 

Her mates canna be. 



Like hue o' the moss rose 
The cheeks o' my dearie ; 

Her hair it is nut-brown, 
Her een black as slae; 



91 



Milk white as new fa'n snow 
The teeth o' my fairie, 

Her skin soft as swan-down, 
An' pure as the May. 

Like mist-clouds that gather 

An' hides the sun's glory, 
The shades that droop over 

My Annie's dark een ; 
As we roam together 

I tell the auld story 
That many a lover 

Hath whispered at e'en. 

She answers wi' blushes, — 

I press her wee fingers, — 
For somehow her wee hand 

Hath slipt into mine; 
An* doon by the rushes 

As gloamin' still lingers, 
I gie her a wee band 

That true lovers join. 



92 



A MOTHER'S DREAM. 



Inscribed to Mrs. Editha J. McLean^ Port Arthur. 

LONG, long she waited for her bairn's return ; 
Her only one, her brave, Rin^-hearted boy. 
For he had gone, arrayed in garb of war. 
The same red path his father went before; 
He seemed his father back to earth again. 
As forth he went, her pride, her soldier son. 



How she did cling around her laddie's neck ; 
No charm for her, the sound of fife and drum 
That stirred the soldier's blood within his veins. 
Her lips were closed ; but from her eyes there fell 
The tell-tale tear that told of her great grief — 
He was her all — the widow's only one. 

"I go," he said, "but cheer up, mother dear; 
Our country calls, and I am duty bound." 
And as he spoke, the soldier blood leaped high ; 
His eyes grew black (they were a grayish blue) — 
"Ah, mother dear, our country's claim is strong, 
And a base coward could not be your son." 



93 



She answered not, but her poor heart did ache, 

For had she not already given one? 

And now her bairn has gone, her bonnie lad, 

And with him goes the sunshine from her heart. 

"Cruel War," she moans, "You robbed me of my Love, 

And now you wait, athirsting, for my son." 



And as she waited for her bairn's return, 
She dreamt she saw him on the field of War, 
With blood-stained sword, leading His comrades on, 
Into the very hell-bed of the fight; 
Down fell the foe before his mighty arm. 
And in her dream she gloried in her son. 

And still she dreamed; and with a mother's eyes 
She followed him thro' paths of human dead, 
Driving the foe as 'twere into the sea ; 
And as she dreamed, a man of giant form. 
Swarthy of skin, a chieftain of the East, 
With lifted sword turned fiercely on her son. 



And hate 'gainst hate, each eye ablaze with fire. 
Each arm strengthened in their country's cause, 
An equal fight, each trained for field of War, 
Sword rung on sword. So it seemed in her dream 
That as the fight she watched, she prayed, "Oh, Lord, 
Give strength of arm to him, my only one." 

94 



Perhaps another dreamed of her brave son, 

Awaiting by her tent for his return, 

And prayed for strength to Allah for her lad. 

For soon the widow saw each swordsman fall — 

Fall, each a victor of the deadly strife ; 

Both conquered lay, yet each the fight had won. 

She held her laddie's head upon her lap ; 

She smoothed the matted hair back from his brow; 

She cooled his lips with water that a mate 

Brought from a stream that gurgling ran near by; 

She heard him say, "Kiss me, mother dear; 

I die a soldier, and a soldier's son !" 



She kissed his lips — and wakened from her dream! 
And falling on her knees, spake thus to God : 
*'Good Lord, I thank You, that You led me where 
My laddie lay, crushed by the heel of War, 
To hear his last 'good-bye,' his closing lips to kiss, 
And know he died as should a soldier's son." 



Soon after to the widow's home there came 
A message mounted with the "Seal of War;" 
"Your son, dear madam, for his country fell 
A hero, and a leader in our cause ; 
His last breathings were, 'Kiss me, mother dear, 
I die a soldier and a soldier's son.' " 



95 



THE SHEPHERD TO HIS COLLIE. 



COME here, auld collie, shaggy freen, 

Come lay yer nose upon my knee; 
Yer once sleek body's frail an' lean, 

An' age has dimmed yer once gleg e'e; 
I mind the time, my faithfu' Shag, 

Ye could a' ither dowgs outrun ; 
Praise gars ye still yer auld tail wag, 

A praise ye honestly hae won. 



Yae nicht, when hills were clad wi' snaw. 

An' burns were bound wi' Frost's keen hand, 
I had to cross the Rubberslaw, 

An' errand to auld Gibbie Shand ; 
My mither tell't me how you whined 

An' pu'd an^ pu'd her to the door, 
An' when she op't it, like the wind 

You scud thro' snaw across the moor. 



Weel was't for me ye had the wit 
To snift the danger I was in. 

Or else some ither hand, puir bruit, 
This nicht wad rub yer auld dry skin ; 



96 



I mind fu' weel, my errand dune, 

I hameward turned. Faith! sic a nicht! 

The Storm King's mantle hid the mune 
That was to me my guide an' licht. 



Auld Boreas he madly blew 

The thick'ning snaw flakes in his wrath ; 
The big snaw drifts far bigger grew, 

An' deep lay hidden ditch an' path; 
I got confused; I scarce could gang; 

The whirling snaw flakes drave me blind ; 
To cheer me up I tried a sang, 

But grimmer thochts ruled o'er my mind. 



In some snaw trap my feet went foul ; 

I thocht my course was run at last; 
'Twas then I heard yer welcome howl 

That mingled wi' the northern blast; 
New courage gained, I hallo'd "Shag," 

As weel's my weak'ning breath wad ca', 
An' by yer help, tho' dour the drag, 

I warstled frae my grave o' snaw. 



When Nature, in a reckless mood, 
Wild rivers made o' mountain rills, 

A' by yersel yeVe braved the flood 
An' drave the sheep up to the hills; 



97 



An', faith! ye were a lawless dowg! 

Aye, you an' me a tale could tell, 
How mune-licht nichts — you poachin' rogue !- 

But that's a story 'tween oorsells. 

But come ye here! lie on that rug! 

The best is no' owre guid for you ! 
An' honest freen's man's faithfu' dowg, 

'Mong smiles or sneer they're ever true ; 
How often man, new freens to win. 

Will scorn the auld, an' ill words say; 

But dowgs — dumb bruits — are far abune 

Sic shallow freenships o' a day. 




A BRITHER SCOT. 



Inscribed to the Rev. James F. Dickie^ on His Call to the American 
Church, Berlin, Germany. 

THE bonnie flooers that come in May 
And beautify the field an' brae, 
Altho' in Autumn they decay, 
Their seed will bloom again. 



The songster sings, then goes away, 
Perhaps a while, perhaps for aye, 
But yet the echo o' his lay 
In memory remains. 

The wee burn rippling owre the brae 
Refreshes many on its way ; 
The bush that's drooket wi' its spray 
Wi' richer blossoms hang. 



This man whose deeds are ever kind — 

Whose eye reflects a noble mind — 

His grasp a proof unto the blind — 

What tho' he's called away 

LofC. 

99 



To other lands that wish to share 
Those talents that to men are rare — 
To lead in study or in pray'r 
The seekers o' our Lord? 



The seed o' Truth — that he has sown; 
Look ye around how well it's grown ; 
E'en frae amidst the brier an' stone 
We see its sprouts to-day. 

His kindly deeds in life portray 
The rippling burn's refreshing spray, 
That drooks the bushes on its way 
Unto the mighty sea. 

An' like the songster's lichtsome lay, 
Altho' by dreamy Spree he'll stray, 
His teachings will remain for aye 
In many a heart an' home. 




NORTH BERWICK BY THE SEA. 



On the Death of a Wandering Scot. 
THE mighty pine trees darken. A glorious view frae me — 
Wild, boundless, trackless prairies, roll 'tween me an' the sea; 
A burning, wasting fever has chained me, laid me low, 
And, oh ! my heart is far away, where caller breezes blow. 

I hear — I ken 'tis fancy — the sea-mews' eerie cry. 
As roond an' roond they circle, between the sea an' sky ; 
I hear the breakers roaring, telling o' treacherie 
That lurks alang yon auld toon's shore — North Berwick by 
the Sea. 



I roam by auld Tantallon, an' climb its ruined wa's ; 
My bluid athrill wi' Douglas, wha strode within its ha's ; 
A bairn again, a-dreaming o' lang syne chivalry 
That haunts ilk stane in yon auld toon — North Berwick by 
the Sea. 



I see the sands a-gleaming, a field o' pearl an' gold; 

The Bass wi' mist cap frowning like some gray witch of old; 

I see a blue-eyed maiden that's ever true to me, 

That I hae trysted in yon toon, North Berwick by the Sea. 



I see a whinstane biggin, the last ane o' the Raw, 
That guards the auld road's turning that leads up to the Law ; 
A hame it's noo for strangers, but weel I mind the day 
When in its cosy but an' ben a bairnie 1 did play. 

I stand where sleep my parents, amang the auld toon's dead; 

A hawthorn spreads its glory abune their earthy bed ; 

I fain wad lie beside them, but, oh ! it canna be. 

For many a trackless prairie rolls 'tween me an' the sea. 

Hold — hold me up, dear campmate ! A Singer's drawing near 
Who sings a sang that thrills me, with rich notes long an* 

clear ; 
The trees gleam wi' His glory ; A Guide He comes to me, 
To lead my soul beyond yon toon, North Berwick by the Sea. 




THE SONG OF THE SKATER. 



A KING you may feel on your favorite wheel 

Over roads that are level an' wide, 
But give me the mere, smooth, solid, an' clear. 

And a sure-footed lass by my side; 
Let the wintry winds blow, the faster we'll go. 

Shod with steel from the toe to the heel; 
With laughter an' song we'll join the gay throng, 

As in circles they merrily wheel. 

The calm summer days the poet can raise 

As he drinks from the cup of his Muse, 
An' sings of the flow'rs, an' jessamine bow'rs, 

An' red lips of the lady he woos ; 
But rime drooping trees, an' keen winds that freeze, 

Are the beauties to me of the year, 
As I merrily glide, a lass by my side. 

O'er the thick frozen, smooth, glassy mere. 

When leaves turn an' fall, the stirring foot-ball 

Is a sport that is fit for a King, 
But when comes the snow, an' wintry winds blow. 

An' the frost o'er the river beds cling, 
Oh, give me the mere, wide, solid an' clear, 

An' a bonnie lass, jolly an' leal; 
Then, ho ! merry ho ! a-singing we'll go. 

As forward an' backward we wheel. 



103 



A SOLDIER BOY'S LETTER TO MOTHER. 



DEAR mother, I ken you'll be waitin' 

For news frae your wild laddie Graeme, 
But you ken I'm a puir hand at writin', 

Tho' I never forget o' my hame. 
I received your dear kindly letter. 

An' was glad to get the guid news 
That faither was now getting better, 

An' had rented the croft o' the Hews. 



An' Maggie still sticks to the teachin' — 

She'll soon hae a school o' her ain — 
But Jock he's no fit for the preachin', 

Let him stick to his chisel an' plane. 
Wha'd ever hae thought that oor Mary 

Could be dux for over six weeks — 
An' Kate does a' the wark o' the dairy, 

An' wee Rab has his first pair o' breeks ! 

Weel, mother, there's word that oor reg'ment 

Soon will get orders for hame. 
An' I've got promoted to serjeant! 

Hoo's that for your wild laddie Graeme? 



104 



I saved the life o' oor captain — 

Nae mair than I ought to hae done — 

Frae the sword o' a wild Arab chieftain, 
Wi' a blow frae the butt o' my gun. 

God bless you, my dear loving mother, 

Tho' thoughtless, I think aye of thee; 
I ken I hae been lots o' bother 

An' brought many tears to your e'e ; 
But my hand's noo beginning to tremble ; 

This climate seems bad for the een; 
My thoughts are beginning to ramble ; 

I'm better wi' bay'net than pen. 

My tent-mate — brave fellow — lies sleepin', 

You ken him — 'tis big Charlie Hall — 
An' it's time 'neath my plaid I was creepin', 

Sae I'll finish wi' love to you all. 
Good-night, my ain dear auld mother, 

I think we'll be hame aboot June, 
An' altho' I'm rechristened wi' poother, 

You'll find I am still your wild loon. 



105 



TEN YEARS TO-DAY. 



Verses to My Wife on Our Tin Wedding. 
DEAR partner, maker o' oor hame, 

An' dearer still, "wee mither," 
Ten years hae gane since we agreed 

Wi' love to toil thegether; 
Oor fields hae aften yielded burrs 

When we expected clover, 
An' when we needed sunshine maist 

Oor sky's been clouded over. 

Ten years to-day ! A span o' Time 

That's drawn oor hearts still nearer. 
An' toddlin' feet, an' chubby cheeks. 

Hath made oor hame mair dearer. 
My task's made lichter by your smile. 

An' brichter gleams oor ingle, 
Where bonnie curls o' broon an' gold 

Wi' beard an' tresses mingle. 

No ugly frowning Gorgon's head — 

A sculptor's horrid vision — 
Stares demon-like above oor gates 

All jealous of intrusion. 
Oor doorway's sma' ; the rooms are wee ; 

io6 



An' humble is oor table ; 
But comfort gleams in ev'ry neuk 
Frae woodshed to front gable. 

Ten years to-day ! God grant we may 

Be many more together, 
Ere Death the Farter's siccar blow 

Asunder cleaves life's tether. 
Ye've learned my ways ; ye ken my faults- 

Ferhaps they grieve ye often — 
An' yet I ken to some o' them 

Your heart begins to soften. 

We men-folks lack the virtues rare 
, That make divine the human — 
It only can be reached by her, 

Man's fair companion, woman ! 
Sae at oor best we men hae faults, 

But to fair woman's given 
The virtues, and the power to lead 

Us willingly to Heaven. 

Again, dear wife ! I say to thee 
I bless our first fond meeting, 

When I found out this heart o' mine 
For love of you was beating. 

Ten years hae gane; the heart still loves- 
Yes, with a love that's stronger — 

While life it lasts true love lives long. 
While life it lasts and longer. 



107 



MacLEANS OF FAIR GLENRHOE. 



THE heath bell withered on the ben 

Grass yellowed on the lea, 

And shallower, shallower sunk the stream 

That zig-zagged slowly thro' the glen — 

A throbbing string of silver gleam — 

With story to the sea. 

Of simple Gael whose patriot soul 

Links grandeur to Auld Scotia's scroll 

Of song and chivalry. 
Yet forced in distant lands to roam 
In quest perhaps of kindlier home, 

For cause men oft bewail. 
Ah, well, 'tis better for the land 
That opens wide with welcome hand 

Their gates unto the Gael. 
For western wild and eastern mine 
Bare the imprint of Ossian's line — 
At college, church, or busy mart. 
At seat of war or fount of art ; 
In all the New World's paths to fame 
We hear the clink of Highland name. 

But turn we with the stream, 
Past bush and flower and half ripe grain, 
That shrinks and droops for lack of rain 
To the wee shieling of MacLean 

The burden of my theme. 

io8 



"Speak man!" what brings ye o'er the hill 

What seek ye in Glenrhoe! 
What message did the chieftain send 
To the MacLean, his father's friend — 

Speak man, we fain would know ! 
The chief — our chief! hath sold the land; 

They'll tear our shieling down, 
And drive us forth, unjust command. 

Why, man ! this land's our own. 

"The old chief was my husband's friend. 

When death claimed his young wife. 
To nurse his son he gave the land 
From "Mona's Height" down to the Strand 

To us while lingers life. 
My Hugh, my first-born bonnie lad, 

He that was drowned at sea. 
Was but a bairnie at the breast. 
When Donald brought the nursling guest. 

Our good chief's son to me. 

"He learned God's grandeur at my knee. 
Our songs, our country's tale — 

And Donald trained his eager hand 

To guard our homes — protect our land 
From foemen of the Gael. 

At Delhi, in the hated strife, 
Angus, my soldier son. 



109 



Saved him, our chief, an ingrate's life. 

And lost, brave lad, his own. 1 

"My bairns all dead, my husband blind, 

Our kin all o'er the sea; 
Ah, happy days, no more again 
The slogan of the Clan MacLean, 

The music of the free. 
Will gather is as it did of yore 

Our tartans in the glen. 
Our good chief dead, his son no more 

A leader of our men. 



"A Sassenach has bought the land, 

For deer parks, did you say? 
The Sass'nach own our braes, our bens , 
Our father's cairns, our bonnie glens — 

Woe, woe befall this day. 
His birthright sell, false be your tale. 

How could he e'er have sold 
Land that was bought with blood of Gael 

For hated Southron gold. 



"Our bodies frail, bent o'er with Time 

Where, man! where can we go? 
He offers a dependent's bed, 
A pauper's homeless, cheerless shed 



To us of fair Glenrhoe. 
Go back to him who dares to sell 
The lan^ his father gave — 
Tell him to-morrow it will be 
Unburdened, tenantless and free — 

From height to Ocean's wave." 



That night, from sea to river's head 

The hills were all aglare — 
Wild rolling waves of lurid red 
Like hell-winged furies fiercely sped 
Sweeping before the frantic herds 
Of sheep and deer, and blinded birds 
Whose shriekings rent the air. 



From cot to cot went forth the cry 

Awak'ning all Dunyre, 
A troubled, ling'ring, thrilling cry, 

"The heather is on fire." 



At mirk the smoke-veiled heavens burst ; 

Down, down in torrents came 
The saving rain with roaring gush, 
Quenching the furious rolling rush 

Of dire destructive flame. 



At dawn Old Sol looked o'er the ben 

On miles of blighted heath, 
At dawn the factor sought again ' 
The straw-thatched shieling of MacLean, 

Thro' footways strewn with death, 
No stir of life fell on his ear, 
Save sob of swollen stream. 
That carried to the northern sea 
The smitten growth of hill and lea. 

Grim mourners of my theme — 
Some flame-swept bushes on the brae 

A patch of blackened grain, 
A smould'ring heap of stone and clay 
A reeking cairn of yesterday — 
The shieling of MacLean. 



No more to man MacLeans will plead, 
For near "Gray Malcolm's Stone," 
Some crofters found at ebb of tide 
Their lifeless bodies side by side, 
Their shroud a gathering of sea-weed, 
Their dirge the Ocean's moan. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



July 2ist, 1796. 
LOW lay the singer, Scotia's ploughman Bard, 

Neglected by the hands that urged him forth. 
Knowing his gifts, feeling his words of fire. 

Yet dare not whisper, would not breathe his worth. 
But hid behind his faults, the faults they nursed. 

That loomed awhile, clouding his rarer skies ; 
They hid with tightened purse and closed eyes. 

The cry went out, "toll, toll the city bell," 

In mourning drape the hallan, ha' and throne." 

The cry went out, and all the great world heard, 
"Our poet's dead," Auld Scotia's gifted son. 

He that has sang a song for Scotia's sake 
And felt as only a true poet can, 

The inward throbbings of his fellowman. 

"Our poet's dead," and those that stood aloof. 
Behind his faults that shadowed forth his worth. 

With hurried steps, lips ready to him praise. 
Sought where he lay, to idolize the earth. 

Awakened to the grandeur of the soul, 
In life delayed — now eager to atone 

By raising to his memory, a stone. 

Ii3 



July 21 st, i8g6. 
A hundred years and yet but half awake 

We grasp the jewels of that gifted brain, 
Of the rare bard, that sang for Scotia's sake 

A living song. 
A wreath of gems, that ever radiant gleams 
And flashes over all man's wide domain, 
Wooing the throng. 

Past worlds of art, to where the golden broom. 

And blue-bells wave and nod and linties trill. 

Where lads and lassies meet at gloamin's gloom. 

By iDurn an' brae. 
Wiled by that pow'r that leadeth heart to heart. 
That hidden sympathetic subtle thrill, 
Love's mighty sway. 

Woos thirsty minds from ev'ry man-trod clime, 

Unto that tomb, where fell a poet's dust, 
Whose genius created gems sublime 

For all the world. 
Who felt, and met the righteous bigot's sting. 
With scorching wit, and at the niggard, just 
Keen satire hurl'd. 

He of the mighty soul, the rare foresight. 

That fearless, grandly sang, "A man's a man, 
Whate'er his rank" (our pampered brother's hight), 
The master line. 



114 



Whose jeweled links encircles all the world, 
Welded by love. The great Creator's plan, 
The chain divine. 

A hundred years, brief period of man, 

Still bigots teach, bigots of every creed, 

And cynics sneer — and narrow minds still ban 

With closed eyes. 
And gold still rules a tyrant over worth. 
And gilded rank, the boast of Adam's seed, 

Pride's steel-forged ties. 

But speech rules free, words of the heart now soar, 

And ranic lies bare, before the wak'ning mind. 
From sea to sea, from distant shore to shore — 

"A man's a man." 
Hand claspeth hand. Quakes now the tinseled pow'r- 
"A man's a man" re-echoes all mankind, 
Bright gleams worth's dawn. 

A hundred years, a field of golden grain. 

Mown down and garnered by old Farmer Time — 
Years of great triumphs of the human brain. 

And yet man turns 
To idolize a tiller of the soil? 

A horny-handed follower of toil? 
Far more! A singer of the heart's rare song, 
A cunning workman of the art sublime, 
Our Robert Burns. 



115 



THE GLEANER. 



HER frail, lean body, bent with age and care. 

Long since robbed of the maiden's rounded charms, 

She stoops and gathers o'er the reapered field 

The scattered straws — within her shrunken arms. 

The faded, much patched, oft washed gown, 

Tucked up to give her limbs more ease to creep, 

Tells of hard times, and yet of cleanly ways. 
Of busy hands, when others, resting, sleep. 

A wide-mouthed bonnet, tied beneath her chin, 
Protects the wrinkled face from glaring rays ; 

A chin wherein a dimple still remains — 
A mark of beauty, gone with better days. 

The sound of reapers in a near-by field 

Awake, perhaps, fond mem'ries of the past — 

Bring back a village belle's romantic dreams. 

Ere with a heartless ne'er-do-well her lot was cast. 

She sees, perhaps, a rosy blushing lass. 

Sought, for her charms, by many a rural swain, 

Following the reapers, with a lightsome heart. 
To ready fields of ripened golden grain. 

ii6 



With supple limbs, beEind the flashing knives, 
She runs and lifts within her rounded arms 

The rich, ripe sheaf, and lays it in the band 
For him, her binder, one wooed by her charms. 

From bench or anvil, or some shepherd lad 
Who leaves awhile his sheep and trusty crook, 

To help his master get the harvest yield — 
In drying rows of shapely, goodly stook. 

At noon, beside a hedge, they sit them down ; 

He, man-like, asks her to become his bride; 
But she, the village belle, has heart for only one- 

The master's son, who reckless past them rides. 

Ah, me ! the poor frail gleaner feebly moans, 
"1 scorned the reaper for the horseman gay. 

And now, alone, I creep and trembling glean 
The stubble fields in life's sere autumn day." 




117 



THE WIDOW'S TEARS. 



THE queen lies dead, in the royal house, 

And a good, good queen was she — 
And around the casket rich and grand 

Weep many of high degree. 
The cathedral bells ring in solemn chimes 

And singers of names far known 
Chant the classic dirge of the royal dead 

For the truest that wore a crown. 



Away from the court, its pomp, its pride, 

From halls of rich display. 
On a bleak hillside, in a peasant's cot 

Weeps a widow frail and gray. 
She weepeth because her queen lies dead, 

For a good, good queen was she, 
Who was loved for her noble woman-heart 

And not for her royalty. 

The widow remembers one sad day — 

A day in years long gone; 
When her husband was laid in his lowly grave, 

Near the banks of their native Don. 
She remembers the lady — the first of the land, 

ii8 



How she came t-o her cottage drear, 
And tried in her kindly, goodly way 
The widowed heart to cheer. 



"I, too, am a widow," the good queen said, 

"So a sister I am to you, 
And our hearts both ache for the love we have lost 

For the men we loved so true." 
They sat hand in hand for many an hour. 

The queen and the cotter dame, — 
It left a great love in the lowly cot 

And honored the royal name. 



Let the royal bards chant the classic dirge, 

The princely mourners pray. 
While castle, church and all are draped 

In sombre, wide display. 
But she who kneels in her lowly cot, 

With heart sad, tear-wet e'en. 
Is a greater proof of the noble heart 

That beat in Britain's queen. 



119 



A WAR BROTHER. 



BRAVE fellow! he's dead, let us bury him deep 
From the vulture's blood searching claws ; 

For he is a brother, tho' little he loved 
Our power as a maker of laws. 

He has fought like a soldier, an' died like a man; 

Ev'ry shot it is gone from his belt; 
So we, his war brothers, will lay him away 

In the bowels of this wild rocky veldt. 

Here's a letter that's fallen from out of his kit. 

The writing is strange unto me, 
But it's proof that there's someone awaits his return, 

Whoever that someone may be. 

Lift him gently, brave chums, fold around him this plaid — 

It belongs to a generous clan, 
Who have loved in all times the true spirit that guides 

To the front the brave fighting man. 

Lay his gun down beside him, he used it with pride, 

We know with an accurate aim. 
But such a bold foeman, we'll treat with respect. 

As we hope to be treated the same. 



Come, Mac, throw over your shoulder the pipes 

An' play up "Lochaber No More;" 
It's a dirge of the mountains appropriate now 

O'er the grave of this patriot Boer. 

An' Bill, you are handy, come carve on this stone — 
Never mind, do the best that you can — 

Use that bay'net, it's broken, the words — let them be- 
"Here lies a true fighting man." 

They buried him deep from the vulture's cruel claws, 
They marked his lone grave with a stone. 

An' turned to forget, as soldiers will do, 
Their deed ere the breaking of dawn. 

But the stone it may stand for many a day. 

When war's bloody carnival's o'er. 
Perhaps as a plea to unite for all time 

The hand of the Briton and Boer. 




OUR GOLDEN JUBILEE. 



Inscribed to the Officers and Members of St. Andrew's Society anb 
Sung by Robert S. Rankin^ Nov. 30th, 1899. 

'TIS fifty years ago since first 

Within this city fair, 
St. Andrew's bairns did celebrate 

With song and speeches rare. 
Some have been gathered to their Sires, 

Beyond the azure sky; 
But what they've done for Scotland's sake 

Will never, never die. 



Now, some of them are with us yet, 

Heads white as driven snow, 
Who sang oor sangs — brave Scotia's sangs- 

Just fifty years ago. 
Come, let us toast them, one and all ; 

Fill high the festive bowl. 
And drink them health and happiness. 

With wines that cheer the soul. 



For Scotland's sake they proved their worth, 

Whatever was the test; 
And carved forever are their names 



Among Columbia's best. 
They guarded aye Old Glory's folds, 

And so with pride will we, 
Altho' at times we sing, like them, 

Of Scotland, owre the sea. 



Then rise, rise to your feet again ! 

Stand brithers side by side, 
Auld rugged Scotland's sturdy bairns, 

And fair Columbia's pride. 
This glorious night our Jubilee 

Around the festive bowl. 
To lasting friendship we will drink 

In wine that cheers the soul. 




123 



YON BONNIE BLUE BELL. 



PU' me, dear sister, yon bonnie blue bell 
That grows on the bank, near the wishing well; 
To-night comes a gallant, handsome an' fair, 
Sae I wish the bloom for my nut-brown hair; 
Haste ye, an pu' me yon bonnie blue bell. 

Sister o' mine, sister dear, 
Frae yon bonnie bank, near the wishing well, 
Sister o' mine, sister dear. 



T'll pu' ye a rose near the trysting tree, 
A bonnie red rose, an' gi'e it to thee ; 
You'll wear it to-night in thy nut brown hair, 
To please your true gallant, handsome an' fair; 
I'll pu' ye a rose near the trysting tree. 

Sister o' mine, sister dear, 
'A bonnie red rose, an' gi'e it to thee, 
Sister o' mine, sister dear. 



Pu' not the red rose near the trysting tree, 
'For its sworded stem thy rich blood might pree, 
An' a bluid-bought trophy I'd never wear. 
Tho' it please a gallant handsome an' fair; 
Sae pu' not the rose near the trysting tree, 



124 



Sister o' mine, sister dear, 
For its sworded stem thy rich bluid might pree, 
Sister o' mine, sister dear. 



I'll pu' ye the primrose frae the green brae. 
The first born flow'r — o' flow'r mother May ; 
I'll weave it wi' green, an' to-night you'll wear 
The yellow an' green in your nut brown hair; 
I'll pu' ye the primrose frae the green brae, 

Sister o' mine, sister dear, 
The first born flow'r o' flow'r mother May, 
Sister o' mine, sister dear. 



'No ! no ! not the primrose frae the green brae, 
Or the rue I'll wear ere summer decay; 
The eye now love-lit be dimmed wi' a tear. 
The red-rounded cheek be hollow an' sere; 
"No ! no ! not the primrose frae the green brae, 
Sister o' mine, sister dear^ 
Or the rue I'll wear ere summer decay, 
Sister o' mine, sister dear. 



I'll pu' ye, sister, the bonnie blue bell 
That sparkles wi' dew near the wishing well. 
That gem o' true love, dear sister, you'll wear 
On a snow white band in thy nut brown hair, 
I'll hasten an' pu' ye the bonnie blue bell, 
Sister o' mine, sister dear. 



125 



That sparkles wi' dew near the wishing well, 
Sister o' mine, sister dear. 



The Fairy o' Love, sweet Queen o' the well. 
Searched a' around for the bonnie blue bell ; 
But she looks in vain, for a maiden fair 
Has pu'd the wee flow'r for her sister's hair, 
An' Cupid, gay Cupid, sings over the hill, 

"Sister o' mine, sister dear, 
A string for my bow, my quiver refill. 
Sister o' mine, sister dear!" 




126 



THE FAIREE COMPANEE. 



My grannie had often said to me, 
When I toddled a wee thing at her knee: 
'When the woods hang ripe wi' nut an' slae, 
An' the hawthorn's red on the auld mill brae, 
Through the Birk grove, past the auld white thorn, 
Gang yer lone-way i' the first peep o' morn. 
An' in the green glade, near the big elm tree, 
Ye'll find the Fairee Companee. 



I dreamed o' their doings nicht an' day — 
'Till I reached the age of six times twae; 
Then, when the cherries were sweet to pree, 
An, the berries hung red on the rowan tree, 
Frae oor hoose I crept, one early morn. 
When the dew still hung on the rip'ning corn, 
To seek the green glade, near the big elm tree, 
Where bide the Fairee Companee. 



I crept past the kirkyard on the hill, 

Roon by the schoolhouse, an' doon by the mill, 

Doon the dam side, then over the rail. 

An' crossed by the steppin' stanes over the Kayle, 



127 



Syne thro' the grove, past the auld white thorn, 
Whose branches hung wet wi' the dew o' the morn ; 
Then' ent'ring the glade, I hid 'hind the tree, 
To watch the Fairee Companee. 



The flickerin' licht o' incomin' day 
Threw shadows 'roon me gruesome an' gray. 
But a soond o' mirth garred me keek roon the tree, 
An' there was a sicht brang the sun to my e'e; 
Roon' a big stane, singin' an' cheerin'. 
Funny wee folk, hand in hand, were careerin'. 
Red-cheeked, roon' Bellied, a' shakin' wi' glee, 
A queer wee broon-coated companee. 



Dame Nature, who ever is kind to her ain, 
Had covered wi' moss the roon' muckle stane; 
On top, mang a glitter that dazzled my e'en. 
Sat a bonnie wee lass I s'posed was their Queen; 
She held in her hand a tiny sheep's horn 
That was fu' to the brim wi' ripe golden corn; 
An' aye as she waved it, they sang merrilee, 
An' thus sang the Fairee Companee : 



'Before the dew drops off the thorn. 
We'll gather nuts, we'll store our corn ; 
Before the sunbeams kiss the lea 
We'll dance and sing right merrilee, 

128 



For a happy, busy folk are we, 

The merry, merry Fairee Companee." 



The rest o' their sang I dinna ken. 

For the sun blinked through the trees just then, 

An' like a flash the fairees were gane, 

While a tJree toad croaked on the moss covered stane ; 

I looked a' aroon, mang grass an' mang corn, 

But naething I found but this wee sheep horn, 

Wherever I wander, I carry 't wi' me 

A token o' Fairee Companee. 




129 



THE HEROES O' DARGAI GAP. 



ONCE again they have saved old Britain's proud name, 

An' curbed the fain cry that was ready wi' shame 

Have awakened the world to Scotia's worth, 

As the pipes stirred them on wi' the cock o' the North. 

Smoke an' blood dimmed the hue o' the bright tartan plaid 

As they rushed thro' the zone wi' bayonet an' blade 

But Gordons will take it an' brave Harry knew 

There was no, no retreat wi' the bonnets o' blue. 

From the gun bristling fidge came death sweeping rain, 
Stirring Findlater's pipes to an angrier strain; 
Both legs they were torn an' shattered wi' shot. 
But to glory he piped the unfaltering Scot, 
With back 'gainst a boulder, he played an' he played 
While the furious blacks dropped their weapons dismayed, 
Then wi' fear driven yells to the hollows they flew, 
Leaving fortress an' guns wi' 'oor bonnets o' blue. 

What say you, alarmist, has Britain decayed; 

Has rust eaten thro' her once-conquering blade? 

No, never as long as auld Scotland has sons 

To blow her rare pipes, or shoulder her guns ; 

Then hurra' for the heroes o' Dargai Gap, 

Rank their names wi' the laddies that humbled proud Nap. 

There is mist in our een for the lads that we lo'e 

But it comes wi' oor pride for the bonnets o' blue. 

130 



THE PAIRTINGS O' YESTREEN. 



Inscribed to My Cousin, Mrs. James Pennycook, Hawick. 

WE miss the pitter-patter 

O' the wee feet on the flair, 
The lichtsome guileless laughter 

We'll hear on earth nae mair; 
For oor bonnie bairns lie sleepin' 

Aneath yon sod sae green, 
An' the tears rin doon as we lay away 

The wee shoes o' yestreen. 



In ilka neuk's a something 

To remind us o' oor weans — 
A wee doll here, a bookie there, 

That bare wee finger stains ; 
Sae oor hearts are heavy, heavy. 

An' tears will dim oor een, 
As we gather up to lay away 

The playthings o' yestreen. 

We watched wi' pride oor darlings 
Grow bonnier day by day. 

An' thocht they'd be oor comfort 
When we were frail an' gray; 



131 



But the shadow crossed oor threshold 
An' darkened hope's fair scene, 

An' the tears rin doon as we hide away 
The pictures o' yestreen. 



At the wee bed we linger, 

Where we aye at sleeptime's 'oor 
Knelt near oor slumb'ring darlings. 

Praying the Heavenly Pooer 
To keep them pure an' happy, 

Fit for a fairer scene, 
An' the tears rin doon as we fold away 

The goonies o' yestreen. 

It's hard, hard, to lose them, 

But there's a future day. 
When freens an' kin that's pairted 

Will meet again for aye; 
Sae we will join oor bairnies 

When love will reign serene, 
Tho' oor hearts are sair, an' we sob to-day 

O'er pairtings o' yestreen. 



132 



THE OLD SOLDIER. 



He stooped, for he carried Time's burden, 

And his step was shaky and slow, 
But his heart was as brave as ever, 

And his eye had a youthful glow; 
Men told of his country's danger 

From a bold war-thirsting foe. 
And his hand clutched the trusty broadsword. 

But it tired with his fancy's blow. 

He sought his couch, body-wearied. 

Where his eyes were soon closed in sleep, 
And in a dream his life rolled backward. 

O'er the sands of Time's great deep; 
He held to his heart his mother — 

He kissed the red lips of his Mame — 
He strode with a soldier's bearing. 

And yearned for a warrior's name. 

He marched to the field of battle, 
Inspired by the roll of the drum. 

And he laughed where the fight was thickest 
At the joke of a soldier chum; 

He leaps with a leader's daring 



133 



To the brave color-bearer's aid, 
And a foeman falls at ev'ry blow- 
That he strikes with his goodly blade. 

But safe is his country's banner, 

Driven seawards back the bold foe, 
And he wakes an honored victor — 

A brave victor of long ago; 
And in voice that is strong and steady, 

Altho' trembles his willing hand, 
He urges his children to stand aye true 

To God and their native land. 



"Remember the blood of your kinsmen, 

That ran in streams to the sea. 
To buy what is now your birthright — 

The home of the brave and free." 
Too strong was the warrior spirit — 

For its tottering, time-worn cell , 
And — they laid him to rest on the hillside. 

Where his warrior comrades fell. 




134 



'A' BODY'S WEAN.' 



Deep the blue o' Dame Nature's ceiling, 

Rich wi' dew shone her mantle o' green, 
When auld Rab frae his auld thacket shelling, 

Hirpled doon to the foot o' the Dean ; 
Soon his auld een they bulged out wi' wonder, 

For there, side the roond muckle stane, 
A basket — an', maist extraordner. 

Within it, asleep, a wee wean. 

The basket auld Rabbie soon shouthered, 

Awa' up to his lanely auld hame, 
Where the gossipin' neebours soon gathered, 

Wond'ring a' frae where the wean came; 
They gossiped an' wrangled thro' ither 

'Boot the feet an' the e'en o' the wean, 
An' wondered wha could be its mither? 

An' where could its daddie ha'e gaen? 

But their tongues soon ceased their waggin', 
An' kind hands soon fed the wee loon ; 

An' for mithers he needna gang beggin'. 
For ilka wife claimed him in toon. 

He grew up a fine bonnie laddie. 
Ilk ane treated him as their ain; 



135 



Auld Rab was a kind-hearted daddy, 
An' we ca'd him "A'body's wean." 

At schule, I mind fine o' wee Rabbie — 

Such curls an' such bonnie blue e'en — 
Ae day he was brither to Babbie 

An' next he was brither to Jean; 
At jumpin', or rinnin', or wrestlin' 

Wee Rabbie could aye stand his ain, 
An' he was either lauchin' or whistlin' — 

This loon that was A'body's wean. 

He turned oot a brave-hearted fellow ; 

To auld Rab he was noble an' kind. 
Na, his folk they were never heard tell o', 

But the laddie seemed never to mind; 
The rambles that we had together 

Come back to my mem'ry again, 
As I roamed thro' the rich, fragrant heather 

Wi' oor Babbie an' a'body's wean. 

I thought — but my heart's for anither — 

When he ca'd me his wee pawky Jean, 
That he meant to be mair than a brither — 

But then, I was only sixteen, 
An' Babbie, tho' just twa years aulder, 

Was sae quiet, an' wad roam aff alane, 
When I, aye a talker, an' baulder. 

Wad be daffin' wi' A'body's wean. 



136 



But auld Rab he dee'd, an' the laddie, 

Ambitious Fame's ladder to climb, 
Went to sea on a ship called the Naddie, 

That sailed for some far distant clime; 
Months an' years they rolled past, an' no letter 

Frae him that we loo'ed as oor ain, 
But we aye lived in hope, 'twas far better 

Than dwell on such thoughts as gave pain. 

Ae day I was thrang makin' butter, 

An' Babbie was cairdin' some 'oo; 
When oor faither cam' in wi' a letter 

Frae the lad we a' loo'ed sae true; 
He'd got lost frae his ship in the Indies, 

An' through many hardships he came. 
But oor hearts they grew licht as the Unties 

When we read he was on his way hame. 

'Twas aboot the last days o' September, 

We had cut doon oor last sheaf o' wheat. 
O'er the dyke sprang a big-bearded stranger, 

Wha hugged 'till I fair had to greet; 
It was that loon, oor auld farrant Rabbie, 

Come back to his auld freens again. 
An' noo, though he's married oor Babbie, 

Still to us he is A'Body's Wean. 



137 



AULD SCOTIA. 



WE love oor dear auld mitherland, 

Ilk wimpling burn, an' roaring river; 
Her rugged glens an' rock-bound strand 

Are scenes that cling to mem'ry ever; 
The pink tipp'd gowans on the lea, 

The yellow broom, the purple heather, 
An' blue bells noddin' saucilie 

For winsome maids to stoop an' gather. 

The frowning rocks where eagles nest, 

Stern thrilling proofs o' nature's graudeur, 
The crumblin' scaurs wi' golden crest, 

An' brae-sides strewn wi' Flora's splendor; 
The highland tarns an' mountains steep. 

The princely ha', the lowly shieling, 
The moss-grown moat, and ivied keep, 

A storied past to all revealing. 

And aft did Ossian sing the praise 

Of highland maid and warrior stern. 
Of fighting clans — in bygone days 

Marked by rude cross and Celtic cairn; 
Rare highland maids ! brave highland men ! 

Time only addeth to your glory ! 
Auld Scotia's rugged mount and glen 

To-day is making Britain's story. 

138 



The lowland haughs and border dales, 

Clothed in rich grass and waving corn, 
Land where Scott wove enchanting tales 

Of lady fair, of hawk and horn, 
Of Douglas, and of Cranstone bold. 

Of Philiphaugh, and Otterburne, — 
Rare visions did his eyes behold 

In ruined tower and sacred urn, 

Auld Scotia's dear! much favored landt 

Your exiled son, with pride aye turns — 
The home of him, alone, who'll stand 

Our Chief of Bards, Immortal Burns! 
He sang not of the might of kings; 

The pomp of courts he held in scorn; 
And yet his song with royalty rings 

The grandeur of the lowly born. 

Farewell, dear land ! though now we roam 

Far from your lochs and hawthorn dens, 
Far from those scenes of childhood's home, 

Your heath-clad hills and rugged glens, 
Unsullied will remain your name; 

Thy honor aye we will uphold; 
Thy standard, aye rising, be the aim 

Of us — as in the days of old. 



139 



IN MEMORY OF A NATION'S BARD. 



(John Greenleaf Whittier.) 

FREEDOM'S sweet bard ! And has that spirit fled 

That moved the feelings of the just and true; 
Whose inspired songs for the poor negro plead, 

Or thrilled the lads that wore the garb of blue? 
But thy rare songs, forever shall they live, 

To cheer the home of many a simple man; 
Thy task well done. For thee we should not grieve; 

Your years were blest beyond the 'lotted span. 



At last you've found the islands of thy quest; 

Thy lyric barque has reached the golden shore; 
No more by life's rough highway need you rest; 

Thy labor done, with Nature evermore. 
Thy every musing breathed of wood and dell; 

Your songs are flowers that strew our life's pathway; 
Sweetest of singers! may thy mem'ry dwell 

Forever green, a household name for aye. 



140 



PAPA'S DIMPLES. 



My Oldest Lassie When a Baby. 

SHE'S the sunshine o' oor dwelling, 

A mischievous little queen, 
Brimming fu' o' love an' laughter 

That fair sparkles in her e'en ; 
Is there anything that's cuter 

Than a baby in a hame, 
Like oor ain wee rosy darling — 

Papa's little dimpled dame? 

Just look then at her dimples 

That lie in her fat wee cheeks. 
An' her mou' just like a rosebud, 

An' two teeth that thro' it peeks. 
No, there's naething that's so charming 

For a cosy little hame 
Than is mamma's precious darling — 

Papa's blue-eyed dimpled dame. 

Now she's fooling wi' her uncle. 

An' a-pulling at his nose ; 
Now she's swinging in her hammock. 

An' a-playing wi' her toes ; 
She's her uncle's little fairy — 



141 



A bright, mischievous dame, 
Is her mamma's blue-eyed darling — 
Papa's dimples just the same. 

Yes, money will buy diamonds, 

And those costly gems so rare; 
But for a balm that's healing, 

And a grand relief for care, 
Is a little dimpled darling, 

A priceless gem o' hame. 
Like oor mamma's precious darling — 

Papa's bonnie blue-eyed dame. 

May God's blessing aye gang wi' her. 

Where'er her wee feet go ; 
May the cloud that's dark an' stormy 

Aye a silver lining show ; 
What sphere of life she's destined for, 

May she aye remain the same — 
Her mamma's blue-eyed darling, 

Papa's own wee dimpled dame. 




142 



IN LOVING MEMORY O' MY MITHER-AUNT. 



(Ann Gordon.) 

I thocht that I again wad clasp 

The dear auld kindly hand, 
And hear a welcome frae her lips, 

A welcome leal and grand. 
But I ha'e lingered, lingered lang, 

Self-exiled o'er the main, 
And death has garnered, and I'll ne'er 

See her on earth again. 



I gaze in sadness thro' the mist, 

Wi' bairnhood's e'en I see 
My noble-hearted mither-aunt 

And hear her say to me : 
"Ah, laddie, laddie, dinna greet, 

Oor hoose it might be sma', 
But there's aye room for your wee heid, 

Sae dinna bide awa'." 

She'd hap me up wi' mither hands 

As if I was her ain ; 
I ken she prayed frae her pure heart. 

Prayed o'er and o'er again. 
To God to guide my wayward steps 



143 



And keep me frae black shame, 
And hoped to see me grip the rungs 
That raises man to fame. 



"Keep up your heart," she'd ever say. 

"The brave heart makes the man ; 
Keep aye this motto in your mind 

And dae the best ye can." j 

I'll ne'er forget the cheery words |j 

That ever eased my load, 
And turned me back when fain I'd stray 
The glitt'ring downward road. 

I fain would ask, I crave nae mair, 

God grant it unto me, 
To drop a tear abune her grave 

For lang syne's memory; 
And pu' a daisy fresh and pure, 

A sacred bit o' bloom. 
To cherish for the hope I ha'e 

Beyond the earthly tomb. 




144 



A PIPER'S CANARY. 



Verses Written on Witnessing the Grief of Mr. Rattray, a Detroit 
Piper, Over the Death of His Canary. 

PUIR bird, nae mair yer wee bit sang 

Will cheer oor hame, 
For Death, dour chield ! has stept alang 

An' smoored life's flame; 
An' noo, in bitter grief, I hang 

Oot owre yer frame. 



Yer wee bit breist, an' tufted croon 

O' orange hue, 
An' warblin' notes, raised ye abune 

The chirpin' crew 
Whaes sangs, folk claim, awake the toon 

To life anew. 



Lang, lang I'll miss yer bonnie sang 

In early morn, 
When daylicht wiles the toiling thran^ 

To tend their corn ; 
Yer cage will empty, silent hang, 

While I maun mourn. 



145 



Sae on yer grave I'll drap a tear, 

My puir wee bird; 
Yer task in life was hearts to cheer, 

An' by my word, 
Wha e'er yer wee bit sang did hear 

Was grandly stirred. 




146 



WEE MIRIAM. 



My Second Daughter, When a Baby. 

MY wee love's een wi' mischief shine; 
Her g^uileless smile bewitches me. 

Her dimpled hand I hold in mine — 
A dimpled hand, sae soft an' wee — 
Wee love o' mine, my Miriam ! 



The fairies surely kissed her mou' ; 
Like ripened cherries is their hue ; 
To test their sweets I'll pree them noo — 
Sweetheart o' mine, my Miriam ! 



She smiles again, a winning smile, 
That shows a dimple in her chin ; 

I'll press her to my heart awhile 

To pree those sweet lips free o' sin- 
The cherry lips o' Miriam ! 



I ask if she'll be ever true. 
But ne'er a word comes frae her mou'. 
Except a rippling "goo-a-goo" — 
Sae quaint is my sweet Miriam ! 



147 



The mither watches, wi' a smile, 
Her daughter fair bewitching me ; 

She maybe minds when she did wile 
The laddies wi' her ain dark e'e. 
Like her wee daughter Miriam! 

My ain sweet love wi' een o' blue, 
An' dimpled chin, an' cherry mbu', 
At thy wee feet wi' love I boo, 
My bairn, my bonnie Miriam ! 

And as I hold that hand in mine — 
A dimpled hand sae soft an' wee — 

A speaking glance, a smile divine, 
Reveals the mither's heart to me. 
She prays, God guard wee Miriam ! 

Yes, guard her. Lord, we ever pray. 
An' keep her pure as she's to day. 
For like a flow'r o' Virgin May 

Is oor wee bairn, oor Miriam ! 




148 



THE MILLER O' SWEETHOPE LEA. 



A story I'll tell, if you wait awhile, 

O' the miller o' Sweethope Lea, 
Who was known for many a broad long mile, 

An' a well-loved man was he; 
For he made fine flour for the Laird o' Beal, 
An' he ground fine oats for the peasant's meal, 
An' steady was the dip o' the water wheel, 

O' the mill o' Sweethope Lea. 



Tho' friends were many, an' busy his mill. 

An' unhappy man was he; 
His hair grew white as the mist on the hill. 

An' trouble gleamed in his e'e. 
Oh, what is wrang wi' the miller ,puir chiel? 
His wife looks happy, his bairns are weel, 
An' steady is the dip o' the water wheel, 

O' the mill o' Sweethope Lea. 



"Oh, what is the matter?" quo' neighbor Lynn, 

"What's wrang, guid freen, wi' thee? 
You look careworn, your cheeks are thin. 

An' trouble lies in your e'e; 
You grind fine flour, you make good meal, 



149 



Your bairns are fat, your wife looks weel, 
An' steady the dip o' the water wheel, 
O' the mill o' Sweethope Lea." 

"My freens are many, my foes are few, 

An' it's happy I should be ; 
My bairns are guid, my wife she's true, 

Tho' a something troubles me ; 
The grain comes rolling to my mill, 
The water comes tumbling over the hill, 
An' never a stane lies ever still, 

O' the mill o' Sweethope Lea," 



"My man he is eident, an' I have found 

Him a trusty help for me; 
He's been wi' me, when March comes round, 

Twenty good lang years an' three; 
But the truth, guid Lynn, I canna conceal — 
My debts grow many, an' I just feel 
Like staying the dip o' the water wheel 
O' the mill o' Sweethope Lea. 



"My food is plain ; I have drank no wine 

For many an' many a day, 
Tho' my mill runs plenty, yet, neighbor mine, 

My mouter a' runs away; 
Nae wonder I look in your e'en unweel. 
For I seem mysel' in a constant reel. 



150 



For ruin grins grimly o'er ev'ry wheel 
O' the mill o' Sweethope Lea." 

"I sorrow wi' thee, guid Miller Swan ; 

Nae wonder you're turning gray; 
You say you are blessed wi' an honest man, 

Yet your mouter runs away ; 
I'm sure there must be a leak in the kiln, 
Or a hole somewhere i' the floor o' the mill, 
Where the rats steal in, when the wheels are still, 
O' the mill o' Sweethope Lea." 

"My advice to you," quo' neighbor Lynn, 

"If you'll take advice frae me, 
Is to watch by the light o' the midnight mune 

Frae ahint the auld saugh tree; 
Go an' watch when King Sleep rules hill an' fiel', 
When the witches dance wi' their sire the Deil; 
When the water jooks past the resting wheel 
O' the mill o' Sweethope Lea." 

By the midnight mune watched Miller Swan, 

An' a strange sicht did he see; 
He saw Reuben Drum, his trusty guid man, 

Drive roon' by the auld saugh tree; 
He saw him unlock the door o' the mill 
An' carry to his cart frae oot o' the kiln 
Seven sacks o' flour, when the wheels were still 

O' the mill o' Sweethope Lea. 



151 



"Losh !" quo' the miller, as he rubbed his een, 

"This is a strange sicht to see ; 
For twenty lang years fair blind I've been — 

Ay, twenty lang years an' three ; 
Wha'd ever hae thocht that lang-faced chiel, 
Wi' his smooth slid tongue, wad ever steal? 
He deserves to be tied to the water wheel 
O' the mill o' Sweethope Lea." 

Long were the pray'rs o' the miller's man, 

But he sailed for Bot'ney Bay, 
An' a happy man is the Miller Swan 

As he rolls the mouter away; 
An' he makes guid flour an' grinds fine meal 
For the baron's ha' an' the peasant's shiel, 
An' steady is the dip o' the water wheel 

O' the mill o' Sweethope Lea. 

He chuckles as he rubs his double chin, 

For a jolly man is he. 
As he tells what he saw, thro' neighbor Lynn, 

To his grandson on his knee ; 
"Look out for cracks, or the rats may steal 
The fine white flour, or the round full meal'; 
Remember the mouter, when still stood the wheel 

O' the mill o' Sweethope Lea." 



152 



WHERE THE PEESWEIPS FLY. 



Inscribed to My Friend, Edmund R. Dowdney. 

WHEN we were bairns, 

Tom, Jack, and I, 
And played as such 

Where the peesweips fly, 
Three bonnie maidens 

Joined in our play — 
Primrose and Hazel 

And bonnie wee May. 

Three stems o' fern 

In her hand held May, 
To draw for loves 

In oor bairnhood's day; 
Tom drew for the maid 

O' the dark-blue e'e > 
And ringlets o' brown — 

Bonnie Primrose Lee. 



Merry Jack came next. 
And happy was hey 

For he drew the maid 
O' the slae black e'e— 



Black as corbie's wing 
Her waving hair— 

A fun-loving maid 
Was Hazel Adair. 

The sweetest o' a' 

Was left to me — 
The choice o' my heart, ■ 

The light o' my e'e ; 
Her hair was golden, 

Her e'en were gray, 
And a dimpled chin ■ 

Had the miller's May. 

And oor merry laughs 

Rippled over the bracy 
When we drew for loves 

In bairnhood's day; 
An' we lingered long 

'Till the bells o' blue 
Hid their hearts o' gold 

Frae the evening dew. 

We drifted away, 

Tom, Jack and I, 
Frae oor border dales 

Where the peesweips fly,- 
Tom as a soldier, 

Jack to the sea, 

154 



And I — well, I'm not 
What I ought to be. 

And the maids we loved 

In bairnhood's day — 
Primrose and Hazel 

And bonnie wee May — 
Primrose is married 

To Dominick Blye, < 
Who teaches the young 

Where the peesweips fly. 

And Hazel Adair — 

Her name I see 
As a possible bride ■ 

For the Laird o'Dee ; 
And that love o' mine 

In bairnhood's day, 
Wi' the golden hair, 

And the e'en o' gray. 

This letter I hold 

In my hand to-day. 
Tells my brother's bride 

Is the miller's May; . 
I've read it o'er 

'Till I scarce can see^ 
And I wish them joy 

As they wish it me. 

155 



Will Tom and Jack, 

As well as I, 
In their dreams roam back 

Where the peesweips fly, 
To the lingering clasp 

And the trembling sigh 
Of our bairnday loves 

As we kissed good-bye? 




156 



MOTHER'S SONG. 



SING on, rare singer, sae bonnilie, 

Sing on, for I love that song; 
'Tis a link o' the past, a loved memorie, 

The song my dear mother sang; 
I have tasted o' death, both on land an' sea; 

I've joined both in fight an' song; 
But no shot or note has ever thrilled me 

Like the song dear mother sang. 



I see the auld schule, near the turn o' the brae. 

The mill, an' the "Dookin' hole," 
An' the village green, where the bairnies play 

At "peerie" or "jing-ga-ring," 
Where I marched soldier-like, a broom for a gun, 

Or mimicked the sailor's roll ; 
Ah, little thought I, in my bairnday fun 

O' the war-god's bitter sting! 



Oor quaint wee auld hoose, wi' its but an' its ben. 

The wa' where the fiddle hung. 
An' the ingle neuk — ah, little ye ken 

What's awakened wi' that song!' 



157 



The cosy peat fire, where we gathered 'roon', 
The crook where the kettle swung 

On the winter nights, when, a wee bit loon, 
I listened to mother's song. 



Ah, rarest o' charms o' oor bairnhood's day, 

Tho' crooned in a simple tongue, 
'Twill live in oor hearts, refreshing for aye — 

Sic power has a wee bit song. 
Then sing, bonnie singer, wi' voice sae clear, 

At your feet rich gifts are flung; 
But the rarest of all is a soldier's tear 

In tribute for mother's song. 




158 



WATCHING AND WAITING. 



I. Spring. 



THE bracken curled thro' stones o' gray, 
The rosebuds burst their cells o' green, 
When first upon the village brae 
I lingered, held by Mora's e'en! 

Ah! youth's rich blood leaped high in me, 
And none saw fairer maid than she — 
But such rare charms were not for me, 

I breathed my love ; man could but dare 

When such red lips were man's to pree. 
And west winds kindly blew her hair 
In golden wavelets over me; 

"Sweet love, be mine! I love but thee! 
Dear heart, but thee — just only thee!" 
But she looked seawards o'er the brae 
Where masts to ocean's music sway. 

II. Summer. 

Leaf-laden branches kiss the stream 

And shield the kine from summer's heat ; 

The bogs with myrtle blossoms gleam — 
A silv'ry path for fairy feet; 



159 



But still she shades her e'en o' gray "f 

To watch the ships sail up the bay, f 

While fades away the summer's day. | 

Blood-red the summer sunset glowed 

Where sky and ocean seemed to meet; 
The radiant streams that earthward flowed 
Jewelled the waves that kissed our feet; 
I whispered, "Love, sweet love, be mine!" 
While yet with roses red the vine 
Her red lips moved — 'twas but a sigh 
That drifted with a sea-mew's cry. 

III. Autumn. 

The wild dun stream, whose goal's the sea, — 

A runner for unwearied Time 
Carried the robes o' wood and lea, 
The red and gold o' Autumn's prime. 
Still she looked seawards as of yore, 
Where frenzied waves like mad bulls gore 
The stubborn rocks that guard the shore. 

"Linger no more," I sadly said, 

"For drear November days are near; 
The murky clouds float overhead, 

And strewn the beach with visions sere." 
A moan, a tear, that glist'ning fell. 
And drifted outward with the swell, 

i6o 



Told me a tale her lips delay — 
Her love was far beyond the bay. 

IV. Winter. 

The hedgeway running to the pier 

Droops with its borrowed robes o' white ; 
The sun that glides thro' azure mere, 
Tints hoary crest with ruby light; 
The rime that rises from the sea, 
In frozen figures wreathes the quay, 
Like white-draped nymphs o' minstrelsy. 

Ah ! wintry days ! I stand alone, 

Watching and waiting on the brae; 
She that I loved has heav'nward gone — 
She that forever said me "nay;" 
We loved, yet lived a life o' pain 
With loving what we loved in vain ! 




i6i 



CASTLE ONY. 



I LONG to roam — to roam again — 

By Teviot's crystal waters, 
Where shepherds sing in blithesome strain 

Of Scotia's border daughters; 
I'd love to muse an' dream awhile 

Where fragrant broom blooms bonnie, 
Or, ling'ring, ^aze frae yon auld stile, 

We climb to Castle Ony. 

Athro' the. glens I long to gang 

In gowden harvest weather. 
Or o'er the hills, when dew-gems hang 

In clusters frae the heather; 
By shady lanes, amang the whins 

Where wee birds trill sae bonnie. 
Or stand a-dreaming near the linns 

That glints wi' Castle Ony. 



Adoon the haughs, where saugh-trees bow, 

By crumblin' scaur or corrie. 
Where burnies gleam, an' ruins glow 

Wi' rare romantic story; 
Where Cheviot mountains proudly loom 

O'er Teviot's dales sae bonnie, 
I'd fain inhale — drink the perfume — 

That floats frae Castle Ony. 

162 



Ah! this I ken, my Borderland, 

While saugh trees kiss your waters, 
An' Venus waves her subtle wand 

Oot o'er your sons an' daughters; 
While Tweed an' Teviot seawards go 

O'er beds baith smooth an' stony. 
Romantic sangs an' tales will flow 

Frae dear auld Castle Ony. 




163 



THE PEN O' BACON. 



YE writers o' the present days, 

Poets and ithers. 
Authors o' novels, or of plays, 

And rhyming blethers, 
A ghostly chiel, wi' phantom pen 

O' by-gone ages, 
Wi' ancient flourish signs his name 

Upon your pages. 



An' clever chiels — in their ain mind — 

Our modern sages, 
Can read the ghostly name that's signed 

Upon your pages. 
The bones o' Shakespeare, I've heard said, 

Wi' fear lie quakin'; 
His poems and plays — tremble ye dead! — 

Were writ by Bacon. 



Those chiels hae proof that Francis B. 

Was Lord Macaulay, 
And wrote the works o' Pope and Lee, 

Campbell and Shelley; 



164 



Ev'n Burns, auld Scotia's poet chiel, 

May get a shakin' ; 
They'll prove those lines unto the De'il 

Were writ by Bacon. 



He wrote Lord Byron's Don Juan; 

He wrote Poe's Raven; 
In Darwin's History o' Man 

His name's engraven; 
The London Times, the New York Sun, 

Their truth's been shaken; 
Ev'n Puck, and Punch, wi' a' their fun. 

Are fried in Bacon, 



His Anagram they'll find within 

The verse I've scribbled; 
And raise a reg'lar Derry din, 

And swear I've nibbled 
Frae oot the bulks o' ither men. 

And prove puir me 
Has used the ancient goose-quill pen 

O' Sir Francis B. 



165 



ROBERT HOPKIN, 



Michigan's Veteran Artist — A Native of Scotland. 

UPON the canvas scenes arise, 

With touch of Genius' brush, 
Forest and fields in summer's guise, 

And streams that seawards gush; 
A lowly glen, where mountains grand 

Rise, king-like, to the skies. 

Bring to the watcher's gladdened eyes 
A glimpse of motherland. 



And now upon the canvas gray. 

There comes a stretch of angry sea — 
Wild leaping waves, white scatt'ring spray — 

An' inspired tEought, a memory; 
Again, from the creative brush, 

Black, bursting clouds, the lightning's flash; 

We seem to hear the thunder's crash, 
So gifted is his touch. 



A ship, tossed by the Storm King's breath, 
With wind-rent sails and wave-swept deck, 
Trembles upon the sea ; 



i66 



We seem to feel the rime of death 

That rises from the painted wreck. 
And as the inspired scene we scan, 
We're drawn, souls nearer, to the man 
Of such true poetry. 



And yon wee flower's modest head 
Scarce rising 'bove its grassy bed, 
Or the wee, tumbling, tinkling rill 
That's runway's over some bleak hill, 
Lowly and perhaps unknown, 
Far from the haunts of fair renown, 
Yet beauteous in the Maker's plan, 
Are not more modest than this man. 




167 



A SHEPHERD'S LILT. 



I MET a fair maid doon the lane — 

Red was the rose on her heaving bosom — 

Doon in the west auld Sol had gane, 
An' fresh'ning dew fell on the blossom. 

Chorus : 

Red was the rose; dark were her e'en; 

And I was young and only human ; 
My heart it gaed lowp at sicht o' fair Jean, 

For my faither before me was fond o' the women. 

Frae her full lips flowed a sweet sang; 

Ruby lips that made my ain lips quiver. 
I bowed and said, "Sweet maid, I'll gang 

And see thee safely o'er the river. 

Chorus : Red was the rose. 

She curtsied low, and sweetly said: 

"Oh, thank you, kind sir, there is nae danger! 

My mither's warned me ne'er to wade 
Across the stream wi' ony stranger." 

Chorus : Red was the rose. 



i68 



"Sweetest, o' maids/' I quick replied, 

I hae fourscore yowes amang yon clover; 

And now I seek a winsome bride, 

Sae wi' your leave I'll be your lover." 

Chorus : Red was the rose. 

"Kind sir," she said, "you flatter me, 
But I hae anither shepherd laddie; 

He's gane the nicht, wi' love bricht e'e, 
To ask my hand frae my auld daddie." 

Chorus : Red was the rose, 

"Ah, bonnie maid," I whispered low, 

"Those red full lips I would fain be kissing." 

She turned her head, and said, "Oh, no. 
Go seek your ydwes ere thej go missing!" 

Chorus : Red was the rose. 

And frae my side the fair maid ran, 

As swift as a young deer, thro' the heather. 

While echoes murmured, "Simple man, 
Why ask for sweets that you can gather." 

Chorus : Red was the rose. 



169 



THREE. 

"They Gang in Stirks an' Come oot Asses." — Burns. 

IN one of Scotland's ancient toons 

That blossoms rich wi' knowledge, 
There lodged three would-be learned loons 

Whose dads had sent to college; 
They studied law in college days, 

At night they studied pleasure, 
So thus, in treading Learning's ways, 

They'd little time for leisure. 

So, when Dame Nature clothed was 

In rich brown, green, an' yellow, 
An' country lanes hung red wi' haws. 

An' fruit was ripe an' mellow. 
Full o' conceit, these students three, 

An' wearied wi' much learning, 
Wi' one consent they did agree 

The country to go roaming. 

They made the simple rustics gaze 

Wi' their amount o' knowledge. 
Inclines they ca'd the bonnie braes, 

An' heather was hill foliage; 
A spade they gave some learned name 

The rustics ne'er heard tell o'; 
A lass they ca'd a rural dame, 

A chield to them was "fellow." 



170 



While coming o'er a heath-clad hill, 

As night was o'er them stealing, 
Nestlin' beside a mountain rill 

They 'spied a shepherd shieling. 
An' there upon the door-stane sat, 

Wi' flowing beard an' hoary, 
The herd himsel; an' near him squat 

His twae dowgs, Clyde an' Rory. 

"Ah, here's a subject for our wit," 

The three exclaimed thegether; 
"Our bumps of humor let us whet 

Upon this shepherd father; 
"My faith," says ane, "we've found, I see. 

Our ancient friend ; Methus'lah 
Art thou, old man, or art thou he 

Who fled from out Gamorrah?" 

He shook his head, an' syne he spake: 

"I'm dootin', sirs, you're wrang; 
But gi'es your hands ; I'd like tae shake 

Wi' anes I've looked for lang; 
I'm Saul, the Patriarch Kish's son, 

Whose asses strayed alea ; 
Step in ! you're welcome ! do not run ! 

For surely I've found three !" 



171 



WEE JESSIE BLUE-EYES. 



My Youngest Toddler. 

WHAES wee feet are pattering 

Doon oor in-bye stairs? 
Whae can be the early riser 
Amang oor winsome fairs? 
A wee face, fu' o' sunshine, 

Greets oor laughing glad surprise; 
It is oor youngest darling — 
Sweet wee Jessie Blue-Eyes ! 



What made ye stir sae early? 

Auld Frostie's no' yet gane; 
I see his busy fingers yet 
Upon the window pane; 

Ye needna stand there laughin'. 

Nor yet look sae wondrous wise 
In your woolen cosy goonie. 
Sweet wee Jessie Blue- Eyes! 



Listen to the kettle singing — 
What can be its morning sang? 

"Come an' get your breakfast, daddie, 
To wark you soon maun gang; 



172 



Go an' earn some mair siller, 
For the hoose it needs supplies, 

An' some wee cosy dresses 
For sweet Jessie Blue-Eyes. 



Come, sit doon beside your daddie, 

An' drink this cup o' milk. 
It's the stuff to make cheeks rosy, 
And the skin as smooth as silk ; 
We want oor bonnie bairnie 

To grow Big as well as wise ; 
Yes, just you, my blink o' sunshine, 
Sweet wee Jessie Blue-Eyes. 



Give me a good-bye kiss, dear, 
The wark bell soon will ring, 
An' I maun pairt the wee bit arms 
That roon' my rough neck cling; 
Ta-ta, my bonnie darling, 

Soon your mates will rise ; 
To play at school wi' sister dear, 
Sweet wee Jessie Blue-Eyes. 



173 



MITHER'S PLAID O' GRAY. 



IN faither's straw thack't shepherd cot, 

Abune the lanely moor, 

Where whaupnebs shriek, an' peesweips wheep, 

Near hills that skywards too'er, 
I crept a wee bit callantie, 

When eerie gloomed the brae, 
Within the cosy fleecy faulds 

O' mither's plaid o' gray. 

An' when auld Cheviot's rugged peaks 

Were roonded owre wi' snaw, 
An' surly winds frae oot the north 

Gae Border folk a ca', 
An' sheep ran bleating to the bields 

Frae Frostie on the brae, 
I' cuddled cosy in the faulds 

O' mither's plaid o' gray. 

An' when at schule I got the taws 

For no' behavin' weel. 
An' maister labeled me a sumph 

Or dour contrary deil. 
My wee heart burstin' like to break, 

I didna stay to play, 
But ran for comfort to the faulds 

O' mither's plaid o' gray. 

174 



An' when I strutted frae my name, 

O' mither's strings ashamed, 
A youth in years — a man in thocht — 

A heid wi' pride inflamed, 
An' met the victor o' conceit, 

A chield o' every day, 
I humbly turned to hide my shame 

In mither's plaid o' gray. 

I see her noo, tho' years hae fled, 

An' I hae wandered far; 
But time nor distance never can 

The hameland picture mar; 
I see the cheerie, kindly face. 

An' hear her saftly say, 
"Come, cuddle, my wee callantie, 

In mither's plaid o' gray." 

Ah, sweet, sweet words ! — words frae the heart 

That fain I'd hear again ! 
But snaw-draps peep, an' gowans bloom 

Where kindly freens hae lain 
The voiceless clay — whose soul hath fled 

Beyond the weary brae, 
Where lang she watched for him who lo'ed 

Her cosy plaid o' gray. 



175 



HAME AGAIN. 



Inscribed to Florence D. Eatherly, of Detroit, When Leaving 
FOR Scotland, 1894. 

Farewell, dear land of my adoption, 

Land of freedom, fare-ye-well ; 
Though I still love your protection, 

I must cross the ocean's swell 
To view ance mair my auld freens' faces ; 

To grasp again their kindly hand ; 
To roam again the auld kent places 

O' my ain dear mitherland. 



Ah, how impatient I'm becoming 

As I pace the proud ship's deck ; 
Ah, 'tis hame that I am going; 

Now I see land's distant speck ; 
Past the green dales of old Erin, 

Like a swan our ship doth glide, 
'Tis my hame — my hame I'm nearin' ; 

As our keel now cleaves the Clyde. 



I can see the mountains looming 
Grandly through the fading mist. 

Crowned with waving heather, blooming 
Purple, dew-wet to be kissed ; 

By the Royal Orb of morning. 



176 



Rising from a sea of gold, 
Scattering gray clouds, and adorning 
Forest stream and grassy wold. 



My heart with feelings grand o'erfloweth; 

Proud I am of Scotia's shore ; 
Ah ! the stranger little knoweth 

How the wand'ring Scots adore 
Their auld land, that distance never 

Lessens in their loyal hearts. 
For a Scot's a Scot forever 

Tho' he's aye a lad o' parts. 

But I'm getting nearer, nearer, 

To the village o' my youth, 
An' the hame that's now still dearer, 

Near the burnie's silver mouth ; 
What a longing expectation. 

As the village looms in sight,' 
What can make this hesitation 

As I from the train alight? 



Doon the road, where hawthorns olden 
Hang wi' tempting blood-red haws, 

Past wide fields all waving golden, 
And green rows of fragrant shaws, 

I can hear the waters falling 
O'er the rocky bedded linn, 



177 



And the linties softly calling 
To their mates among: the whin. 



Now I pass the whinstane schoolhoose, 

Past the kirk, an' village well ; 
At last I see — I see the auld hoose 

Where I ken leal hearts do dwell ; 
Can I tell my joyous meeting, 

Not for glad tears that will flow ; 
Ah, 'tis grand, a wanderer's greeting 

Where the bramble berries grow. 




178 



HEATHER MUSINGS. 



Written on Receiving Some Sprigs o' Heather from my Cousik 

Tom Gordon. 

Wee sprigs o' mountain heather, 

What message bring ye me? 
I know kind freens did gather 

To send you owre the sea ; 
Their thoughts wi' love did wander, 

Where mighty pine trees sway, 
To one who oft meandered 

'Mang heather on the brae. 



This message it is written 

Upon your petals rare : 
Kind hearts are ever waitin' — 

Kind hearts that miss 3^e sair; 
They've sent ye as a token 

Across Atlantic's sea, 
O' freenships that's forever 

O'love that ne'er will dee. 



Again I climb the mountain, 
When simmer skies are blue. 

Where heather bells are glintin' 
Wi' gems o' morning dew ;< 

179 



I hear the linties singing, . 

Oot owre the broomy knowes, 
While larks up high are soaring 

Frae oot the grassy howes. 

I see a straw thatch't shieling 

Wi' garden 'fore the door, 
An' folk wi' hearts aye kindly 

Flit thro 'it as of yore ; 
Wee sprigs, o' hillside heather, 

Wee ruby-tinted flower, 
You've bound me wi' a tether — 

A lasting unseen power. 

I'll keep thee as a token 

Frae loved ones owre the sea, 
Whose message, tho' unspoken. 

Engraved is on thee; 
I'll prize thee as a treasure 

Frae Scotia's bonnie braes, — 
Wee sprigs frae freenship's measure, 

I'll keep thee a' my days. 



1 80 



TO A WILD ROSE. 



Pulled from a Bank that Overhung the Slitrig Water in September, 
1894, BY A Cousin of the Author. 

WEE Border rose, whose sweet perfume 
Hath mingled wi' the heath an' broom 

O'er Slitrig's bonnie braes, 
A kindly greeting I give thee 
For love o' them across the sea — 

My freens o' bygone days. 



C bygone days, I thoughtless say: 
Na, na, they're freens that last for aye, 

Tho' oceans roll between ; 
An' as I hold ye in my hand, 
I see thro' mist oor Border land — 

O' Hameland parts the Queen. 



Auld Hawick, guarded by the hills, 
Her auld gray towers, her busy mills, 

Romantic Border town ; 
Her sons as brave as those who fell 
For Scotland's cause in Flodden's dell, 

Round him who wore her crown. 



i8i 



Her maids like to her maids of yore, 
Who girt the war-sword on their wooer 

For Scotland's weal or fame ; 
Or for God's open Bible stood, 
An' showed a noble womanhood, 

Martyrs to flood and flame. 



May be, wild rose, your petals blew 
Near where a famous thorn grew 

Whose branches held a steed, 
Whose master, Scotland's bravest knight, 
Her warrior hero, Wallace wight. 

Who fell by Judas greed. 



Or else the blood o' bold Buccleuch 
Enriched the soil whereon ye grew, 

Or far-famed Hogg or Scott 
Immortalized some lady's bower. 
Your native bank or nearby tower, 

In gifted song or plot. 



I'm sure some callant oft did woo. 
Beside the bush whereon ye grew. 

Some bonnie Border maid; 
An' some wee bird, whose lichtsome lay 
Awakes the echoes o'er the brae. 

At gloaming sought its shade. 

182 



Still gurgles on the Slitrig's stream, 
An' wee birds sing, an' lovers dream 

Where once your petals blew; 
An' on the bush your bonnie bloom 
Burst forth in fragrant, rare perfume, 

Or drank the freshening dew. 



Another rose will burst anew 
As rich o' perfume, rare o' hue, 

An' maybe some kind liana 
Will pu'd to send it o'er the sea 
To one who loves — as well as me — 

Oor ain brave Border land. 




183 



A BORDERER BOLD. 



Written on Receiving a Walking Stick Made from a Sapling from 
THE Old Hanging Tree near Hawick and Sent to the Author by 
a Cousin^ Mr. James Pennycook, in 1899. 



I. 

SOUTHWARD rode King James. 

And bloody was his way, 
For a maiden royal had craved a boon — ■ 

A boon from his Kingly sway ; 
And never had gifted James, 

The fifth of the Stuart race, 
Refused a favor to lips o' red 

That curved on a comely face. 

ii. 

And England's Princess fair, 

Of Edward's royal linfe, 
Had pledged her hand to Scotland's King 

At Scone's romantic shrine ; 
Whenever he stilled the, hand 

That reddened the Saxon heath. 
Whenever the sword of the Borderer bold 

Clung dry to its rusting sheath. 

184 



III. 



The King- to his courtly scribe 

Dictated this command, 
And death to the Borderer, high or low, 

Who scorneth the King's command. 
"No more shall you raid the land — 

The land of your English foe; 
No more must you strike in Scotland's cause 

A foeman's deadly blow." 

IV. 

By Tweed's gray stately towers 

By Leader's banks o' broom, 
Up Ettrick's rocky winding, paths 

Waved Scotland's Kingly plume ; 
Ten thousand belted men, 

With spear and bared sword, 
From highland hill, and lowland glen, 

Follow their warrior lord. 



V. 



Follow their beardless King 
To humble the Borderer free, 

Who signs not his name to the scroll, 
Or bends not the servile knee ; 

Few are the names that line 



185 



The cream of the royal page, 
But many a home lost sire and son 
From the heat of a young King's rage. 

VI. 

The Teviot banks were green ; 

Steep Cheviot mountains brown ; 
Brown with the bracken's turning leaf, 

When they camped near Hawick town; 
At dawn one sought the King, 

With forty horsemen bold, 
All sons of Scotland's Borderland, 

And true as their sires of old. 

VII. 

'Twas fearless Armstrong, 

The King of the Borderland, 
And never a suppliant craved in vain 

A boon from his strong right hand ; 
And England's King himself 

Hath promised a rich reward, 
To know full sure that this dauntless Scot 

Lies deep 'neath his native sward. 

VIII. 

Frowned Scotland's poet King- 
As the bold chief drew near. 
Scorning the bristling ready guard 

i»6 



Of winged shaft and spear; 
"Come, ye bold men, to sign. 

Or from yon trees to swing; 
Down ! down, bold serfs upon your knees ! 

Know not I am your King?" 

IX. 

"It never will be said 

Or told in minstrel song, 
That ever to man the knee was bent 

Of bold John Armstrong ; 
We come not for to sign 

The scroll that will curb the hand 
That's feared as the lightning's siccar stroke 

O'er all King Harry's land." 

X. 

"I'm here, most noble King, 

With forty Borderers true; 
Our swords are keen and ready aye 

For Scotland and for you; 
But from dun Flodden's side, 

And from the Till's red vale. 
We hear as 'twas but yesterday 

Our kinsmen's dying wail. 

XI. 

"Command us, Royal James, 
Command us for to bring 



187 



The English leader to your camp, 

Or even your rival King; 
And ere another sun 

Arise o'er Hawick town, 
The boast of the people south the Tweed 

Will kneel to brave Scotland's crown." 



XII. 

Dark loomed the young King's brow ; 

Flashed fire his haughty eye ; 
"\\i hat means this knave who bears himself 

As much a King as I ? 
Ho, serfs! bind every one 

Unless they kneel and sign ! 
From yonder trees they'll hang to-night, 

A long and goodly line !" 

XIII. 

" 'Tis folly," quo' Armstrong, 

For us to seek for grace 
From one' tho' honored as Scotland's King, 

Has nought but a graceless face ; 
Our fathers fought and fell 

At Flodden with his sire, 
And now the son of the warrior King 

Becomes King Harry's squire. 



XIV. 

"But never will we sign 

Our names to stay our hand, 
And let the English prowlers gut 

The homes of our Borderla,nd ; 
You can do your worst, young King, 

But ere your head grows old, 
You'll wish for the sword of an Armstrong 

And his forty Borderers bold." 

XV. 

They hanged them side by side 

From forty growing- trees; 
'ihey hanged the brave of Teviot-side, 

A beardless King to please ; 
For never could gifted James, 

The fifth of the Stuart race, 
Refuse a favor to lips o' red 

That curved on a comely face. 




A VISION. 

After Reading an Article on Solomon's Misconduct. 

SOME new-born theories I had read 
From modern sage, 'bout ancient dead 

(Perplexing theme !) 
With such grim thoughts I sought my bed 

And thus did dream : 

There seemed to float from out the gloom 
A noble form, long past the bloom 

Of youth's young day, 
That filled with light my humble room, 

And thus did say : 

"Why search ye, mortals? Why your quest? 

Can ye not let our ashes rest 
'Neath Eastern sand? 

I come invited — yes, your guest- 
Yet here I stand." 

Wi' trembling hand I got the chair, 
For be it kent, I hae nae mair, 

And urged my guest 
To crook his knee an' share my fare— 

A sma' request. 



190 



His ell long beard, a silvery white, 
Like moonlit lake in Autumn night ; 

Kingly his brow ; 
His deep-set een showed learning's light 

And Genius" glow. 

A diamond circle lustre threw 
O'er silken robe of azure blue 

That's graceful fold 
Fell to his feet, half-hid in shoe 

Of burnished gold. 

His voice — as musical as when 

The stream in torrents floods the glen, 

So strong and grand. 
As one who ruled the sons of men 

And empires planned. 

"I'm Solomon, once called the Wise, 

Whose bones now dust 'neath Eastern skies,- 

As scribes doth tell. — 
Whose truths your sages now despise. 

And misdeeds swell." 

"What if the sayings that I writ 

Were gleanings from some courtier's wit? 

Their truth's the same. 
Base man ! who would with honor sit 

Thro' other's shame?" 



191 



"Some barren spot doth oft contain. 
Deep 'neath its crust, a golden vein. 

And from the slums. 
With chastened lips, as one to reign, 

Rare Virtue comes." 

"Why hunt for knowledge in the tomb ? 
To-day is yours to pluck the bloom : 

The past's a snare ; 
The fate of souls whose faults now loom 

In time you'll share." 

"Some search for truths before the flood, 
An' claim that all of human blood 

From apekind came ; 
Base, unbelieving, mocking brood!. 

From whence your claim ?" 

"Th€ Greatest Master Hand did plan 
A perfect form, and called it man — 

A noble name ! 
And at the sixth day's virgin dawn 

He made the same." 

"From Nature's mold of heav'nly grace, 
Like to Himself in form and face ; 

Then from man's side 
He made the motlier of our race — 

Man's joy and pride." 



192 



'"Oh, poor deluded modern men! 
The tangled flight of Darwin pen 

But leads you blind ; 
The face is but an open ken 

Of soul and mind." 

"liut turn, frail mortals! seek no more 
To shake the history of yore, 

And do not moan 
O'er sin that's told in ancient lore — 

Look to your own !" 

"Ye cannot turn the ocean's tide, 
Nor the sun's glory can ye hide 

From mortal een ; 
Nor can ye make the bleak hillside 

In Winter green." 

"Men's theories oft, like cobwebs gray,' 
Mere weavings of a life's short day 

When Time's sure hand 
Sweeps with his brush all trace away 

Of what was planned." 

"But God's great glory never dies ! 
On earth, in sea, or changing skies, 

A proof to man 
Who would their Maker's work despise 

For some crude plan." 



19.3 



"But fare-ye-well ! for dawn again 
Awakes the life on hill and plain, 

And I must go 
And write — do not my words disdain— 

And let men know." 

I woke just as the orb of day 

Burst glorious, flooding field and brae 

With amber light ; 
But he, my guest, through cloudway's gray 

Had ta'en his flight. 




194 



SPEED-YE-WELL. 



AWAY with the tide, 

To sink or float, 
A few waif rhymes 

In a paper boat; 
Will the wind be smooth 

As it bobs along 
O'er engulfing depths 

Of the sea of song? 

I do not know; 

Ah, yes ! I care ; 
And this the refrain 

Of the rhymer's pray'r, 
That someone may 

Find a line to cheer, 
Or a thought that'll bring 

To the eye a tear. 

A wee bit sang 

That'll reach the hearts ; 
Then the pray'r is heard 

"O' a lad o' parts," 
As it goes with the tide 

To sink or float — 
A few waif rhymes 

In a paper boat! 

195 



TAI.es of OOR 
MITHERLAND 

By JAMES P. BROOMFIELD 



"•'W' 



A ROADWAY MINSTREL. 



A quaint old figure looms up out of the past, a figure ben^ 
with age and shrunken with want of proper care, a hameless body 
with the soul of a mighty musician. An old Balmoral bonnet, 
yellowish green with age and exposure, covered in a' seasons o' the 
year his brainy old pow. Long straggling locks that would have 
been of a silver whiteness if they had not been bleached by 
many showers, and fire-frizzled by many suns, hung limp and 
dead-like over his bent shoulders, that were usually covered by 
an old gray plaid or maud. His thin bare face (for it was ever 
close shaved) was weel kent at kirn or fair, market or tryst, 
on both sides of the Border. In our village every one had a 
bawbee to spare for the auld minstrel, whose gifted hand un- 
loosened such rare melody frae the auld age-blackened fiddle 
that rested beneath the skinny auld chin. Never was there a 
bite, a smoke, or a seat by the ingle neuk refused him at any 
door — ^^ha' or hallan — for the fiddle in the hand of a true mu- 
sician has the voice of a siren. Sometimes his voice (which 
must have once been as gifted as hand), inspired by his own 
playing, would burst forth in song — a song that would stay the 
hand of the smith as he fashioned a shoe upon the anvil, or 
stop the softer c-wish-ish of the plane of the carpenter. 

Paitched and threadbare though his clothes were, "the bodie 
was as clean's a new preen/' auld Nannie would say. At oor 
hoose he often res:ted, summer and winter, and auld Nannie's 

199 



banno's an' hiame-brewed yiU loosened bis ready tongue, an' so 
we heard man)^ a tale o' Border raid and o' lovers' trysts, betwixt 
the gloamin' and the mirk. Such late hours were forbidden me, 
but auld Nannie would forget me, being herself romantic, and 
grandfather would never disturb the talk of a guest to tell a callant 
who lay on the rug with his arm around auld "Collie's" neck drink- 
ing in story or gossip to "get to bed." 

"Foxie," a Scotch terrier, had been the minstrel's companion 
ever since I first saw him. A puir little lean beastie it was. It 
followed, limping behind its master, in the lightsome days, and 
was carried in the auld gray plaid, like a mitherless lamb, when 
the days were cauld and stormy. 

One winter day, just at the dark'ning, auld Nannie opened 
the door to the auld minstrel and his terrier, both nearly frozen 
stiiT, for it had been a terrible cold day. Nannie soon thawed them 
out with good waiTm gruel — 'giving the auld minstrel a wee drap 
first to loosen the ice frae his throat. After the panritch bowies 
were cleared away, grandfaither and the auld minstrel sat down 
to a game of draughts. Grandfaither was a keen player and the 
minstrel always had some new move to show wheii he called, but 
this night, after repeated careless plays, he threw his men into 
the center of the board with the remark: "I'm no masel' the nicht, 
miaister ; no' masel'. I ken there's something gaun to happen tae 
me. I've haen a presentiment oavre a week noo, an' I'm sure my 
wanderings are nearing an end." 

"Hoot's man !" said grandfaither ; "mony a lilt we'll hear frae 
ye yet, before the robins chirrup abune yer kirkyaird beild. Licht 
yer cutty, man, an' smeek away sic dowie thochts." 

"Na, na, maister; baccy reek'll no' smither what I ken is 
comin' sune ; an' that's what brought me your gate the nicht as 



muckle as onythiiiig. I've been a wandering ne'er-dae-weel, but 
I hae managed to save twa or three punds; enetich to bury me. 
It's in Saunders Yule's Bank. I hae left a bit line wi' him to give 
you the pickle siller if ony thing should happen to me. He kens 
fine what it's for ; I dinna want to be buried as a pauper. There's 
something else he's keepin' for me. It's my black claes. Pit them 
on me. They were my marriage claes ; they're braiddaith. The 
last time I had them on was when they buried my Peggie. And 
lay my auld fiddle asidte me ; it's been my companion sae lang that 
I feel it's a pairt o' masel'. Gallant, come here. Ye'U be guid 
to 'Foxie' should onything happen it's maister? I ken fine you 
will. He'll no' ruin ye wi' his appetite; an' ye'll find him a grand 
ratter. I can sleep in ony laft or shed when I ken 'Foxie's'' 
aside me. 

"Ay, ay, maister," the minstrel continued, "I've gien a puir 
aocoont o' masel' for a' the talents I've been blessed wi'. Faither 
an' mither dune their best for me. I learned a guid trade, but 
had aye a cravin' to be a great musician. — ever since the time my 
Uncle Tiam cam bame frae the Indies. He was my mither's 
brither. He was a grand fiddler, and he noticed I had a guid bow 
hand; sae he gave me my first lessons; and when he went away 
again he left me his fiddle. When my apprenticeship was through 
— I had learned the tailoring — I went to Edinboro'. My room- 
mate was a singer, and it was not long before he had me persuaded 
to throw aside the needle and earn a living by my talents, which I 
was rapidly cultivating. My room-mate was a very popular young 
man, and I soon got introduced into some of the best society, and 
I gradually rose to the front rank of the musicians. While at the 
height of my fame I returned to my native village and married 



the love of my youth — ^an angel of goodness, Peggy Gowan. For 
over a year our happiness was complete. Not an angry word had 
passed between us ; and we would have ever remained so had I 
kept from the stage; but that was the ruin of me. I could not 
stand the tongue of the flatterers, when the flatterer was a bewitch- 
ing woman ; so I neglected my Peggie, and my voice for the com- 
pany of the gay . Well, I cannot tell you how I fell — 'got 

hissed off the stage, for I was intoxicated^ — ^yes, a common drunk- 
ard — and my poor Peggie died of a broken heart. I rallied for a 
time, then my parents died, and I sank deeper, and gradually 
drifted where I am to-day. But rax me my fiddle, callant. Noo 
dinna pit yer fingers on the strings." 

I was startled for a minute at the request; for he had wan- 
dered as he was telHng his story from the broad Scotch to pure 
English ; but I hastily got him his fiddle that hung in an auld faded 
green bag on a crook near the door, taking care not to touch the 
sacred strings with my fingers. He had noticed they were sweaty, 
for I had been huggin' auld "Collie" as I listened open-mouthed 
to his story. Tune after tune, merry and sad, he wiled frae that 
auld black fiddle. One by one the villagers tip-toed into the house. 
Nannie was footing a sock in her cosy chair, but when he struck 
up "The Wind That Shakes the Barley" away flew the sock, and 
she had fairly to grip the arms of her chair or her auld feet wad 
hae gotten the better o' her. Grand faither said he "never heard 
him play as he played that night." The tailor shook his head and 
said, "The buddy's fey." Still he played on, uncon- 
scious of everyone around him. The auld arm at last 
gave out, and when he played his own favorite, "The 
Land o' the Leal," the bow dropped to the floor, and 



the villagers slipped out as they had slipped in. Auld 
"Collie" was lying curled up on a rug near the hearth. 
"Foxie" lay near him. Grandfaither was refilling his pipe. The 
auld fiddler still sat, the fiddle in his hand, the how on the floor. 
I went to lift the bow, when grandfaither gave a cough. I looked 
in his direction, then he pointed to the stairway leading to the loft 
and my bed. I looked at the auld minstrel, as I turned to the stair- 
way, and I saw tears, big tears, dropping from bis eyes. Then 
my young mind thought grandfaither thinks such a scene is too 
waesome for a licht-hearted mite o' a callant; but I could hear 
them talk long after I had gone to bed, for I was beginning to 
understand and gather what men carry with them for all time. 

Next morning the clouds around the hill-head showed that a 
storm, and a bad one, was brewing, but the auld minstrel, although 
grandfaither urged him to stay, had to gang beyond the "Shep- 
herd's Yett;" and go he would — storm or no storm. Seeing he 
could do no better, grandfaither made him take the loan of an extra 
plaid, and oS the auld fiddler set by the high road. But the heart 
o' the terrier was not in the tramp, for it turned many a longing 
look back — maybe yearning for the warmth o' the rug that it had 
shared with auld "Collie" all night. Thick and fast fell the snow. 
By mid-day every inch of the hard-frozen ground was covered 
with a white mantle. Before the darkeninig set in sheep scurried to 
the bieldy side o' the plantin', even the hardy cheviots sought with 
head to the ground the fast disappearing stretches o' dry-stane 
dykes. The rising wind wi' an eerie soo-ooch came plowing 
down the roadway and round the hillside, gathering the snow into 
weird-looking sihapes, and leveling, as with a mighty trowel, mak- 
ing them treacherous snow traps, the deep-cut flood ditches with 

203 



the roadway. By fothering time it was impossible even for a hill 
herd to find a cart track, far less a sheep path. 

"It's an' awfu' nicht,*' grand'faither said; "a fearsome nicht. 
I wish I had garr'd that auld wandered bide. I hope he got as far 
as Guidfallow's ; but I feel uneasy aboot him." 

"Nae fears," quo' auld Nannie. "The wandering haveril's 
toastin' his taes by this time at auld Rab's ingle, an' makin' the 
weemdn folk eerie wi' some o' his ootlandish tales. Keep yer mind 
easy, maister ; he's seen owre mony Hansel Mondays tO' be caught 
in a snawstoirm when he kens o' a fire blink?" 

It was noon next day before the storm stayed its worst, and 
then it seemed sweer to give in, for it soughed an' raged till night, 
when the stars came out, showing the callant the awful whiteness 
everywhere below beginning to glitter and harden with the icy 
breath of the frost king. At grandfaither's request next morning 
some of the villagers, with the callant and auld "Collie," tried to 
make their way around the plantin' to Rab Guid fellow's, but the 
snow was too deep. The next day we again tried it, this time by 
the high road, with Tam Muckle to lead the way. Tarn was the 
molecatcher, and grandfaither thought he was so used to kicking 
and spreading flat the molehills with his big tackety boots that he 
would make a grand pathmaker through the snow. And he was 
a success, for, after many a fa' and get-up again, we reached Rab's 
straw-thatched whinstane cottage, that was more like a huge white 
cocket hat, with a long lengthening reeky feather atop, than any- 
think else I could fancy that morning. To Tam's query auld Rab 
replied, "Na, na ; I hevnae seen the auld rake-aboot for twa months, 
altho' I've been thinkin' aboot him for a couple o' days." * * ♦ 
"Ye dinna tell me sae! I hope he got tae shelter afore that storm 

2o4 



came up, for it's been a fearsome yin. I hevna seen its marrow 
for a quarter o' a century, and that wis the winter that Cessford's 
herd lost his life in the snaw." 

We were still in conversation with Rab when the herd o' the 
Yett and his dogs came plunging thro' the snow round by auld 
Rab's hen-house. "Ye must be in awfu' need o' baccy to bring ye 
village-wards this moirn," says Tam Muckle as the herd drew near. 
"It's no ibaccy I'm aifter this morn. I wis gaun doon tae the cai- 
lant's grandfaither. I've a bit message for him that the callant 
can noo take; but I can guess what's brought you folk frae the 
village ; you're lookin' for the auld fiddler ? I thought sae. Ye'il 
find him in my hoose — gey still; but 111 gie ye my story. Early 
this morn I went up by the Scroggy glen. I had 'Dane' wi' me, 
for he's a guid dog amang snaw, and I had lost a tup, missed him 
frae the ithers when the storm was at its warst ; sae I thought that 
mebbe he had run for shelter doon by the auld dyke. It wis a 
terrible warsle through the snaw doon by the glen, for the wind' 
had swirled an' swirled roon the banks until it looked like a big 
milk bowie, and no' a very temptin' hole to go into to look for a 
lost tup. I wis returning bame again when 'Dane' rushed from 
my side like a flash, plungin' an' sputterin' thro' the snaw to a 
clump o' bushes on the braeside, where he started to howk and 
yowl, as if he had found the whul o' a wild cat. I follov/ed as 
fast as I could, thinkin' it was probably where the tup wis, an<f 
there, half buried and frozen stiff, lay the auld fiddler, his een 
closed forever, and his hand grippin' tight to his bosom his auld 
fiddle, while rowed up in a maud beside him, gey feeble i' thd 
bark, but still alive, wis his auld terrier. I can tell ye, neebours, it 
wis a sicht I'll no' sune forget. I hurried hame and got some help, 

205 



and now he lies in my ben room awaiting the joiner. This note 
was in his pocket, addressed to your grandfaither, callant; ye'd 
better rin aff wi' it at yince. I suppose it'll be the auld fiddler's 
will." 

The note was for grandfather to give Saunders Yule, the 
banker, for the money and clothes to give the auld wanderer a de- 
cent burial. The joiner made a first-class coffin, and they dressed 
the tuneless clay in the broadcloth suit that cam'e with the money 
from Mr. Yule's, laying the auld fiddle across his bosom. I noticed 
as I followed behind the cart that bore the remains to the kirk- 
yaird that some of the big yauld herds and villagers passed the 
snuffbox gey often roond, and it must have been gey strong snuflf 
to make Tam Muckle sneeze till the tears ran doon his clean- 
shaven cheeks. A piece of sandstone marks the spot iwhere he lies. 
A bowless fiddle is carved upon it — the work o' the village mason. 

I took the auld terrier hame. He shared the rug with "Collie" 
for two years. One night in the end of November I dug a hole 
and buried a' that was left o' "Fo'xie" — a lean, lifeless little body — 
outside the kirkyaird dyke, within easy call o' its master, as I ex- 
plained to "Collie," who stood watching me hide with earth and 
withered leaves his dead companion. I told "Collie" we should 
have buried "Foxie" at the foot of its master's grave, but the truth 
must be told — "Collie" and I stood in fear o' Sandy, the grave- 
digger, who was ever prowling about the kirkyaird^ — Sandy's yaird. 



206 



MONA, THE BROWN-HAIRED. 



A Tale of Highland Sailor Life. 

Bring back my love, O sea, 

Safe on your heaving breast — 
Waft his rare song to me. 

Soft winds, from out the west. 
Malcolm, the merry one; 
Malcolm, big Donald's son; 
Brave Malcolm Maclean. 

So sang Mona MacDonald — "Mona, the Brown-Haired" 
— daughter of Angus Dhu; sang, not with the tongue of the 
Sassenach, but with the soft, flowing, melodious language of 
Ossian, that is like the rising and falling of the waves as they 
meander shorewards over the yellow sands at eventide when 
the air is laden with summer's fragrance. 

Her waving brown hair, scattered in ripling masses by 
the autumn winds over her shoulders, hid the white, swan- 
like neck of the singer as she tripped lightly over the hillside. 
And who is Mona, that I should tell of her more than any 
other light-footed maid of the Highlands? Ask the Widow 
McRay; for see, the singer halts at the widow's shieling. 

"Ah, dearie, dearie," says the widow, as she comes to the 
door; "and what for would you knock at a door that is ever 
open to you and yours? And how is the mother? And ye 

207 



expect the boats in the morn? And I hope the fishing will 
have been good, because everything is so poor on the land. 
O, dear, dear ; it is myself that used to stand for hours watch- 
ing through the mists of the morning, and the shadows of the 
evening, for the return of my Rorie, and O how glad I was 
when he came; for he was a handsome man and brave, and 
as gentle as a ewe lamb. 

"But the time came when he returned no more. Hamish, 
our son, had fallen asleep, for he was but a boy, and had played 
all day on the sands, and I was footing a pair of his father's 
stockings, when Sandy Bain looked in at the door to tell me 
the boats were in. 'Twas then a something seemed to strike my 
heart; but I hastened to the shore, where I looked for Rorie, 
for the moon was bright, and I could see the men in groups. 
At last one came my way with his head dov/n. It was your 
father, and my heart turned sore, sore ; for I knew he carried 
a burden that was heavy to bear, and hard to tell. I ran and 
met him, and all he said was, 'Rorie's drowned' ; but he 
caught me in his strong arms ere I fell on the sand, for the 
stroke came hard. He carried me home, and your mother, 
the good woman, cam^e, and I had one that wept with me, 
and we prayed together ; for God knov/s best. Ah ! but it has 
been yourself, my Mona, my sweet one, that has cheered me 
with your bonnie ways, and writes for me to my Hamish, my 
boy, who is a sailor on the big lakes in America, and is doing 
so well, and is coming home by the New Year. Yes, yes, your 
mother is always sending me tea ; and I never have nothing 
to send her back. But sit down and rest ye, and have tea with 
me to-night, for my eyes have been longing for you ; and a 

208 



wee bird whispered this morn that you were coming, and I 
have some nice scones. Yes, yes, dearie. I have been spin- 
ning some nice, soft wool, for I am going to knit your father 
and brothers and my own Hamish some nice stockings for the 
winter. Indeed, indeed ; your mother and you has plenty to 
do with so many boys, and my fingers get stiff if they are idle. 

"And, dearie, they say — that is, some of the neighbors — 
when Malcolm Maclean comes back your mother will be los- 
ing ye. Ah ! you're blushing ! Well, there is no better lad 
in all the Highlands than Malcolm ; but I had been wishing 
for my own Hamish. But I know you won't be getting mar- 
ried before New Year, and I know Hamish would like to play 
the pipes at your wedding; and we would be so proud." 

So spoke the widow in her rich Gaelic as she busied her- 
self getting the tea ready ; and Mona, never idle, soon had the 
spinning wheel running, while she sang: 

"Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing, 

'Onward!' the sailors cry; 
Carry the lad that is born to be king 

Over the sea to Skye." 

But it was not only the widow McRay who loved Mona 
so well, and where her face brought sunshine. There was the 
time when the factor — "the Sassenach," he was called, because 
the Chief had brought him from London, although he claimed 
to be Scotch — ordered the Macallums out of their shieling, 
because they could not pay the rent of their croft. Macallum 
had been sick, and he could not go fishing, and the land was 
so poor. One of his boys had turned out bad ; the other one 

209 



was learning a trade in Glasgow, and Sarah had gone to a 
Lowland farmer to work in the fields, where she had won a 
husband, but he was poor, like herself, in money. So the 
Macallums would have been turned out, only Mona heard of 
it, and she ran to the Castle and demanded to see the Chief, 
and the Chief came to the big door, for Mona stood there. 

"And what wants Mona, the Brown-Haired?" asked the 
Chief in the language of his people. 

"Oh ! Chief" — and Mona pleaded with her hands clasped 
— "the Macallums ; and you know he has been sick, and the 
land is poor, and he has not been able to go to the fishing, 
and his rent has been due a long time. Well, the Sassenach 
— your factor, I mean — wants to turn them out; and where 
can they go? I want you to let them stay, and the people 
will give them potatoes and some fish when the boats come 
back." 

"You must go and see my factor about it, Mona. No 
doubt but what he is right in turning them out; besides, I 
cannot waste time about the Macallums just now, for I have 
to go to London to-night." And the Chief made as if to turn 
from Mona." 

"What !" exclaimed Mona ; "a daughter of the MacDonald 
ask a favor from the Sassenach ! Surely the Chief himself 
would no' ask me to !" 

"But I will give you a note to him, Mona." 

"Then send the note with your ghillie, for I am asking no 
favour from the Chief, either, but just to remember him that 
neither he nor his factor has any right to turn the Macallums 
out of their shieling — to remember him that he once loved his 



people before he strayed to the cities of the Lowlands and 
learned their ways — remember him that once loved the mist- 
mantled hills of his father and his father's people — that it was 
the Macallum who saved you when your boat upset off Dun- 
vegan — ay, saved you at the risk of his own life, for father 
was saying you were a young man then, and a poor swimmer; 
but you loved your people, and their songs, and their games, 
and their simple ways. But now you weary for the mansions 
of the Sassenach and for the company of them who love you 
but to drain your purse of the rent money you gather from 
your kin, who earn it at the risk of their lives, heaved ana 
tossed upon the treacherous deep, or by the plowing and 
seeding of their crofts that give forth in return scarcely more 
than the stones for the walls of the shielings that even the 
Chief craves, perhaps for paddocks, where he can imprison the 
deer that he boasts of to his Southern friends." 

As she spake her dark eyes gleamed with a royal light, 
and her red lips quivered with her feelings, as she felt to her 
very soul the wrongs of her people. 

The Chief lowered his head as he murmured: "Mona, I 
thank you for remembering me. I will not go to London to- 
night, and I will see to it myself that the Macallums keep 
th^ir shieling; and I think we can find work for the Macallum 
ourself around the Castle." 

Next rent day, too, the crofters were surprised to have 
handed back a third of what they paid the factor; and none 
knew that they had to thank Mona, the Brown-Haired, for 
the gift. 



On the Sabbath, in the little Gaelic church on the hillside, 
Mona sang so sweetly, or told the bairns of the fisher-crofters 
the story of the fishers of Gallilee, and the wondrous draught 
of fishes. The mothers prayed in their hearts for great hap- 
piness ever to be with Mona. And the old white-haired min- 
ister, who lived in the other glen, blessed his young helper as 
she piloted him by the sheep-path from her father's shieling 
in the early darkenings to the light of his own manse. 

But when "Ian Bheag" struck his step-son in causeless 
anger, it was Mona, standing between them, who called him 
a coward. Ian trembled and held down his head as if afraid 
to look her in the face — he that was afraid of no man. Didn't 
he fight and thrash the four tailors of North Uist, the father 
and three sons, just over a paltry button? And the tailors 
had a fighting name. Ian wished six buttons on his Sabbath 
day vest, and they sewed but five on. But Ian was always a 
vain man, and, besides, at that time he was courting Mac- 
Dougall's widow. 

Mona had the queen eye, ready to flash with anger in a 
cause she thought just — as ready as it was to fill with grief 
mist for some one's sorrow. Ian Bheag never abused his 
stepson again. Poor Angus was deformed and needed sym- 
pathy, and when Ian came back that same year from the deep 
sea fishing he brought Mona a beautiful branch of coral that 
he bought from a sailor at Oban. 

I must tell you how Angus, the deformed one, when 
Mona's little brother turned very sick, when all the men and 
lads were gone to the fishing, ran through "the great rain" 
(as it is yet called, for no storm has equalled it since) over 



the hill for Dr. Stuart. Some say the distance is seven miles 
one way, but every one that's walked them knows how long 
they are, and it is twelve miles by the cart road. But what 
cared Angus for rain, distance, or even thunder and lightning 
— only he longed to see the doctor's gable. The doctor was 
sitting at his little window, hoping that no one would need 
him in such a day, when Angus came plunging through the 
flooded footway to the house. 

"Angus MacDougall !" exclaimed the doctor as he opened 
the door to the rain-soaked mortal, "what great trouble brings 
you over the hill in such a storm!" 

"Mona's little brother is very, very sick," gasped Angus, 
as he sank on the stool the doctor pulled towards him. 

"Mona's little brother," echoed the doctor, as he looked 
up at the black, rain-gushing heavens, and then at the waters 
roaring over the hills, turning the cart roads into a clay-red 
river — "not very tempting for man or beast." Then, turning 
to Angus, he said, "Well, if you braved the storm over the 
hill, I surely can try the road with Hector, the pony. You 
had better bide till after the storm. The lassie will give you 
something to eat." 

And the doctor braved the storm, and Mona's little 
brother got well again. And when Mona met Angus the next 
day she kissed him on both cheeks, making Angus the proud- 
est lad in all the glen. 

And this is Mona now going home from the widow's, 
for the gloaming has nearly waned. She has a long way to 
go in the shadows that are darkening the hue of the heather, 

213 



but her heart is light, as light as her footfalls, as she springs 
like a fawn up the hillside. 

"You expect the boats the morn," the widow had said, 
and the morn came, clear and refreshing. A kindly wind 
filled the little sails of the fisher boats, and before sunset they 
were kissing their wives and bairns and sisters — yes, and 
sweethearts, too. Mona was there on the shore awaiting 
them — a bonnie sight for her father's and her brothers' eyes ; 
but Malcolm — where was he? Malcolm was well, but had 
gone to Glasgow after selling his fish (for they had had a 
large catch), and he was coming home by the mail boat. And 
Mona blushed, for she knew of many things that Malcolm was 
going to get, for he had measured her finger's thickness with 
a piece of thread which he hid away in the cases of his watch. 

The days wore on until the New Year, when Hamish — 
now captain — McRay came home; and he said (I wonder if 
he was just fooling) "that he had come for Mona him- 
self, but as he had been too late in the courting he would just 
have to be content with playing the march at the wedding." 
They had waited for Hamish's home-coming; and such a wed- 
ding! The Chief came, and his lady; and there were four 
pipers, besides Captain McRay, and no one ever heard McRay 
play as he played that night. Some said there were tears in 
his eyes, but maybe he was so glad. The Chief danced with 
Mona, and the factor danced with her; and if the factor was 
a Sassenach, he had learned very well the dances of the Scot. 

There I will leave Mona. She seemed so happy with 
her little hand in that of her stalwart, broad-shouldered, au- 
burn-haired Malcolm, as they sat watching the dancers — the 

214 



Sassenach in a foursome reel, hooching and snapping his fin- 
gers in the face of his worst enemy, the Macallum Mhor. 

And Hamish McRay? Well, it was the spring time when 
he took his mother with him across the Atlantic ; and I believe 
she shares the captain's nice home, with a very sweet-tempered 
Canadian woman, the captain's wife — a good daughter to the 
widow. 




215 



"THE BROWNIE." 

A Tale of a Border Spate. 

"The Brownie," as I ever remember him, stands before 
me in the mirror of the past, a quaint, twisted, thrawn-bodied 
little mortal, a crooked, gnarled branch of a handsome family 
— a heartsore to his kin — until the name of "the Brownie" was 
thrust upon him. But that's my story. 

All the long, bleak winter the snow had drifted, driven 
into the lirks and gaps as it whirled in blinding clouds over 
the Cheviot range. Hoary-headed herds who had seen many 
a mutch o' mist or snow on Dame Cheviot, many an ice-locked 
burn, and watched the glint o' skates on Cessford's loch, or 
whurled the granite in the lang winters o' their young days, 
by the glimmer o' Auld Luna, never remembered o' seeing as 
hard a winter, and with many a wise shake o' their shaggy 
heads, and forcible draw o' their weel seasoned cutties (pipes), 
foretold o' the danger of the spring spates (floods), and tho' 
prepared for it they little dreamed o 'the result. 

It happened on a Sabbath morning, showing that the ele- 
ments had no respect for the guidly man. The minister, who, 
with more than usual care, had prepared a sermon that would 
awaken even Sneddon's Tarn, the village doubter, if not from 
his theories, at least from his doverings in the kirk loft. Wat 
Elliot and Tosh Inglis, neighbor herds, were discussing the 
merits of March lambs, when a roar as if every river in the bor- 

216 



der had become one and was being driven by Auld Boreas him- 
self over the brown slopes of the Cheviots, forced from Wat's 
lips, "The spate ! the spate ! Here, Dane, Dane !" — to his col- 
lie — "Weir away wide ! weir away wide !" a signal for his dog 
to gather any straggling sheep — and gripping their crooks 
firmer in their hands, hurried to warn all of the awakening of 
the waters. 

"Nae preachin' the day," growled the "Smith" as he 
gripped a steel-shod stick and pulled his bannet firmer o'er his 
lugs, "thir's no a footway but what's a river; and look back 
at that ice that's being thrown up on the bank — there goes oor 
curling, and we just needed yae game to make us even. The 
trophy gangs to Jedward again." 

"Here comes Eckford," said one of a group that gathered 
around the Smith. The Smith was an authority and leader 
in everything outside the hearing of his wife. 

"Thir's something wrang at the moss," exclaimed the 
Smith, "that brings Eckford this gate." 

Eckford came swinging around the turn, spurning the wa- 
ters that lapped his knee buckles. 

■'Come a' o' ye," he roared, "that's able ! The hinds (plow- 
men), hooses o' Mosstower ha' been washed away, and the 
women an' bairns are at the Big Hoose, and the men has gaen 
to Aucrum, for a message has came that the spate has worked 
terrible havoc up there, an' I can weel believe it, for the waeter 
carries some queer burdens. Come a' o' ye that's able." 

And Eckford measured the able ones with a look that was 

purely Eckford. Eckford measured a man as he would a stirk, 

thereby slighting and wounding the sensitive spirit of Allen 

t 

217 



Bell, the deformed one, who was then eighteen, who turned 
homewards with downcast head — a head worthy to enoble the 
figure of an Adonis. But, alas ! it graced a deformed body and 
limbs, a body that was but a target for the sneers of the unfeel- 
ing, — ^turned homewards, brushing past his mother, whO' 
watched from the turnyett her two braw lads following the 
brawny Eckford. Her een gleamed with pride as she watched 
her stalwart offspring, that thawed to tears as she greeted her 
poor, deformed, sensitive bairn, with words that trembled with 
a mother's feeling. 

"Never mind, my bairn, ye'll yibbles be a comfort to yer 
mither when the ithers hae nests o' their ain." 

But Allen only answered her with running toward the 
barn, and climbing up to the hayloft, and throwing himself 
amangst the hay, gave vent to his feelings in tears, as he 
moaned : "Guid Lord, ye hae'na made me bonnie in shape, 
but ye might give me a chance to show Eckford that I am as 
brave as ony o' them." 

And the poor, slighted little hunchback sobbed and trem- 
bled amang the hay. After a time he crept over to the loft 
door, and swinging it open, looked forth, thrilled to the soul 
with the wild, destructive grandeur of the elements. 

Where'er he turned his eyes mighty fields of clay-red 
water, tumbled and rolled, burdened with the spoils of its 
own destructive powers — fences, carts, and even carcasses of 
sheep and cattle were swept seawards — trees bent and 
cracked and tumbled with swishing splash, forming foot- 
brigs over the flood-runs. Even the mighty oak that had 
shook its acorns at Allen's feet at autumntide had been torn 

218 



from its foundation, and was being hurled, maybe to Tweed- 
mouth, where the gleg eye o' some boat-builder would steer 
it where it would be fashioned for longer journey. 

Thrilled to the soul, as I have said, with the destructive 
grandeur of the elements, Allen stood at the door, regardless 
of wind and rain that beat in on him; and as he looked to- 
wards Ormistoune, he saw what tore from his very soul and 
scattered some frightened drooket sparrows into the rain 
again. A wild cry — a cry that frightened even the horses in 
the stable beneath. 

Hurling shut the door with a newborn strength, he slid 
down the ladder, and was soon fighting his way thro' the ra- 
ging elements in the direction of the Waterfoot. 

Wat Affleck, hedger, ditcher, sawyer and boatman, had re- 
turned from helping Rutherford's herd to house his gimmers ; 
had arrayed himself in dry clothes, and was slowly but surely 
enwrapping himself in clouds of tobacco reek that he blew 
around him. As he lay in an easy position on a sheepskin- 
covered sofa in his favorite corner, Allen burst in on him, flood- 
ing the kitchen with the water that ran in streams from his 
clothes. 

"Haste, ye man Affleck !" blurted Allen in excited mouth- 
fuls, "thir's a thatch roof come doon the water wi' a collie and 
twae bairns on it. It came roond by Ormistoune, and is noo 
stuck in the big saijgh tree opposite the Plowlands. Sae haste 
an' gi'es a hand to get oot yer boat." 

But while Allen was talking Wat was pulling on his boots 
and was soon leading the way to the shed where he kept the 
ford boat in the winter months. They had but a short distance 

219 



to pull the boat, for the Teviot is a wild stream in a spate, 
and had spread over the haughs, making the lowlands 

From Tweedmouth to Scotts o'Harden 
One great troubled, clay-red sea, 
A wild, destructive, drift-strewn sea. 

And anyone can show you to-day gateposts along the 
roadway, notched above the topmost fence bar — notches made 
by Affleck and others to point to as the water's height as they 
retold the story of the year of the great spate. 

Looking in the direction Allen had spoken Oif, Affleck could 
see enough to substantiate Allen's story, that there was a raft or 
roof with some living objects upon it, held fast, seemingly, by the 
big saugh tree, and, fortunate for them, down the river. 

But It was no easy task, even for a man such as Affleck was, 
who knew every salmon bed from Kelso brig to Teviot head. But, 
"wi' the help o' Providence," as Affleck said afterwards, they suc- 
ceeded in steering clear of tree and driftwood. Alien working like 
the hero that he was, using a steel-s'hod pole, while the hedger 
handled the oars. 

As they neared the tree they could see that the strange raft 
was, as Allen had said, "the thatch roof of a cottage, and twae 
bairns and a collie" — the bairns a boy of about six and a lassie 
o' three, tied securely to the roof with straw ropes, in charge o' 
the noble collie, that gave vent to a joyous howl as Allen 
sprang on the roof beside them. 

"The Brownie! the Brownie !" cried the boy, as Allen cut the 
ropes and carried their cold, wet little bodies to Affleck, who rolled 
them up in shawls, that Affleck's wife, who, I have neglected to 
mention, had thrown in the boat. "A far thinking woman," so 



said her husbandi as he made them as comfortable as he could, and, 
stroking the intelligent head of collie, who lay down beside them, 
gave Allen the sign to shove away from the tree. 

The wind had fallen, and although it still rained, it had spent 
its fury. So, letting the boat drift, they were able without much 
exertion to reach Plowlands, where an anxious crowd had been 
watching them for some time, and willing, kindly hands carried 
the bairns to the kitchen, where they and their saviors were soon 
made comfortable by the guid wife o' Plowlands, with warm 
clothes and hot gruel. And Allen became the hero' of the spate. 

"He's a game yin, let me tell ye," said Affleck. "Hoo he ever 
reached my hoose it's mair than I can tell ye. He must hae swam 
the Oxnam." 

"Na," exclaimed Allen, "thirs a tree fell up by the plantain, 
and I came across it. But they are Anicrum bairns, for I mind, 
o' seeing the laddies at Pinelheugh. I was amang the whins, 
and he thought I was a Brownie." 

"I heard him ca' ye the Brownie. But they have fallen 
asleep. I hope thir faither and mither is safe." 

"Here's some yin coming frae Ancrum way now," said 
Plowdands, entering at that moment, "and feggs! the collie 
kens them" — as the dog rushed past him and up the hill, bark- 
ing joyously, in the direction of the comers. 

They proved to be the father and two of his brothers, 
w^ho had been informed that the bairns they supposed were 
drowned were safe in Plowlands' kitchen, thanks to Allen and 
Affleck. 

"We're no the only yins," said the father, "that the spate 
has robbed o' a hame, and we mauna forget to give thanks to 



the Almighty in being saved oursel's and sending to the aid o' 
my bairns sic a brave callant. The flood came on us unawares, 
bursting the banks and tearing everything before it. My 
hoose stood richt in its 'way. I tried to get the wife and 
bairns oot and take them to a place of safety, but I hadnae 
time. I climbed to the roof and tied the bairns so they would 
be safe, and returned for my wife. But the water came with 
siccan a fury that my bit biggin' was but a sheaf before it, 
and when I was able to gather my confused wits the roof and 
bairns were whurlin' roond Grubbits' turn, and my faithful 
collie — guid dog — standing guard over them. Hooever, I 
managed to get my wife to Ancrum Ha' I'll never tell ye ; but 
she's there safe enough, breaking her heart over the loss o' her 
bairns, and I maun get back to her to make her heart glad. 
I'm a puir man, and I canna gi'e ye mair than thanks ; but if 
ye want my collie — brave Dona' — ye can ha'e him. He's 
worth mair to me than the estate of the Douglas." 

"Na, na," said Affleck, "keep the dog. We're well enough 
repaid. For mysel', I've been wanting to taste the guide 
wife o' Plowlands' cheese, and I never got a better oppor- 
tunity. And as for Allen, he's earned a name he has reason 
to be proud o' — the Brownie — the hero o' the Big Spate. Ha'e 
ye ony daughters, Plowlands? Weel, if ye ha'e, ye never 
could get a braver son-in-law." 

And that is how Allen Bell, the support of his old mother, 
when I knew him, came to be called "the Brownie" — a name 
that even Eckford was proud to call him by, who had done 
some heroic work himself that day — a fit name for the loving, 
kindly village schoolmaster, whom I can see even now, whose 
deformities were hidden by the grandeur of his soul. 



BONNIE MIRREN KERR. 



Ha' an' hallan mourned the sons and fathers, chieftains 
and henchmen who had gone out with Scotland's thoughtless 
yet brave king against the army of their common enemy, Eng- 
land. Red, red ran the waters o' the Till, mingled with teats 
of the weepers, to its broader, deeper sister, the Tweed, which 
carried the message of hate and grief to the goal of many trou- 
bles, the sea. Young mothers nursed their fatherless babes, 
nursed them with milk tainted with a deeper hate for the 
dwellers south of the Cheviots ; and even at this late day some 
of the Border Scots feel betimes the tingling of the tainted 
streams. And surely mothers and orphans of "Merrie Eng- 
land" had as just cause for grief as "Bonnie Scotland." 

But while women wept, lads (some scarcely within the 
girdle of the teens) that had run with glee but the yesterday 
among the heath and bracken found themselves by the hand 
of war the head of a household. They threw aside the play- 
stick and the kite string to grasp the lance or bow, or even 
the blood-washed sword that lay at the side of their dead sire, 
and, kneeling on the blood-soaked heath, prayed to Heaven for 
the strength o' men to strike another blow for Scotland's 
cause, and to avenge their kin that lay seemingly but prey for 
the gluttonous corbie that hovered with rasping screech above 
them — loyal kin, who had followed the royal leader to fatal 
Flodden, never to return. 

223 



There stood, or perhaps there stands to-day, the ruined 
wing of an old castle on the banks of the river Kayle, near the 
village of Hownam — a crumbling memory of a family whose 
motto, "We take who dare," was known and heard of for many 
a mile on both sides of the Border. Kerr of Hundalee had 
gone with three brave sons — the youngest but in his teens — 
with the Scottish army to Flodden plain. They fell near the 
body of their royal chief — fell with their heads towards the 
south. A weeping mother and widow, with a wee lassie at 
her breast, and a laddie o' but five summers, were all that were 
left to guard Hundalee from the English invader, should he 
come that way. 

As this laddie grew toward manhood he showed the spirit I 

of a true Kerr. He had lived up to the motto of his house 
when but a stripling. His sister, bonnie Mirren Kerr ("Rose 
o' Kayle Water," as she was called), made many a gallant's 
heart stoon wi' a feeling that couldna be stilled by a raid 
across the Border. But her heart was for none o' them until 
at the Castle o' Fernieherst, the home of her kinsman, she met 
and loved handsome Willie Polwarth, laird o' Elmtree Ha'. 
Many a lad looked glum when the news reached them that 
Mirren Kerr had promised her hand to Willie Polwarth ; and 
woe betide the English foe that came near their ever-ready 
lance when in such a mood. But all wished the handsome 
victor joy, and promised to dance at the weddin' — all but 
Bauldy Maxton, baron o' Dunyon Keep at Jeddart Tryste, who 
burned wi' another feeling than that o' friendship. 

"Beware o' Maxton," said Johnny Armstrong to Polwarth, 
as they rode together from the Tryste toward their homes ; 

224 



"he loves ye but little since ye won the love o' Mirren Kerr." 

"Little care I," said Polwarth, "for the anger o' Bauldy 
Maxton ; he was aye a dour friend, but he never met me yet 
with spear or quarter staff." 

"Aye," said Armstrong, "but traitor blood runs in the 
veins o' Maxton; his mother came o' the house o' Monteith, 
and now, since the news be true that our beardless king seeks 
favour from England, by promising to put an end to our raids 
across the Border, even if he has to accomplish it by fire an' 
blood, take care that Maxton, to save himself, does not play 
traitor to the Laird o' Elmtree Ha'." 

"Surely," said Polwarth, "our king, before he sets our 
homes in a lowe, will think of our fathers and brothers who 
fought and fell with his own sire at Flodden." 

"Our king thinks but little of our sires who fell at Flod- 
den," exclaimed Armstrong, as he brought his gloved hand 
down heavily on his horse's neck, almost forcing the animal 
to its knees. "He thinks but o' making his peace with King 
Harry an' crushing the power o' the Douglas ; for well he 
knows that the men n' Tweed and Teviot are quicker to rally 
at the slogan of a Douglas than at the command o' a Stewart. 
But here we part. Farewell, an' beware, ye o' Maxton." 
***** 

Hither an' thither, in happy mood, ran men an' maidens, 
with armful o' white heather — the hill flower o' good luck — 
decorating from base to turret the Castle o' Hundalee ; for 'tis 
the day that the gallant Polwarth weds the bonnie Mirren. 
Harpers an' fiddlers, and even kilted pipers frae the far north, 
gather in the kitchen to await the gloamin', when the feasting 

225 



an' rejoicing would begin. Up in one of the rooms, whose 
windows faced the roadway leading to the Elmtree Ha', sat 
mother and daughter, the mother's nimble fingers weaving 
wreaths of moss-rose an' fern, enriching them with threads of 
bluebells and forget-me-nots. The daughter, the bonnie Mir- 
ren, whose rich velvety cheek was a worthy rival in hue to the 
rose her mother held in her hand, watched eagerly from the 
window for the coming of some one down the roadway, while 
the sportive sun elve played hide-an'-seek among the golden 
wavelets that crowned her queenly head, and flowed over her 
milk-white neck and shoulders. 

"I dinna ken what makes me feel sae," said the mother; 
"but I hae just that same feeling I had afore the bloody Flod- 
den — a feeling that something is gaun to happen to the House 
o' Kerr." 

"Tut, tut, mother," said her son, a dark-haired, worthy 
descendant o' the Kerr. He had just entered the room, and 
as he bent over kissed her sorrow-seamed brow. "Tut, tut, 
mother; this is nae day to hae rueful thoughts; you are but 
dowie wi' the thought o' the handsome Polwarth robbing us 
o' oor bonnie Mirren ; but ere the Yuletide I will bring ye a 
daughter as bonnie and as kind as the fair Mirren ; an' to- 
night, dear mother, you and I will lead the dancers, and we 
will show the gallants an' maidens who gather at Hundalee 
in honour o' my sister's weddin' that the Lady o' Hundalee is 
as graceful in motion as when — as your own sweet lips hath 
told us oft — you led the dancers in your father's ha' with Scot- 
land's heroic king." 

"Look ye, Hugh ; look, is that not Wat o'Dyrlinton who 
rides in such haste?" exclaimed Mirren. "See, he comes to 

226 



Hundalee. Surely, evil tidings gars the honest Wat urge his 
bonnie mare to such a pace. Haste ye an' meet him, brother." 

But Hugh had already gone, and was himself at the yett 
when Wat staggered from his mare. Poor brute, it looked as 
if it had swam the Tweed while in a spate ; but soon Ringan, 
Hugh's henchman, was rubbing it down with fresh bog hay, 
while its master in excited language told Hugh how the king 
with an army o' men had reached Jedworth. "Evil tidings, 
aye, evil tidings, when the king comes on such an errand," ex- 
claimed Wat. "Every house from Hawick to Jedworth has 
lost its chief — not by lance or bow, but with traitor's hemp. 
In a grove, side by side, hang the flowers o' the Border, Scott 
and Armstrong, Elliot o' Minto, Todd o' Tushielaw, and your 
brave kinsman, Kerr o' Fernieherst. 'Twas Livingstone, o' 
Ancrum, who brought me the bloody tidings. He said that 
Maxton o' Dunyon Keep rode side by side with our beardless 
monarch, and that Elmtree Ha' was the next resting-place. 
Methinks little favour will be shown Polwarth when Maxton 
rides stirrup to stirrup with the king. And to-night the Pol- 
warth was to wed your sister! Would that I had been the 
bearer o' better tidings on such a day to fair Hundalee." 

Little said the Kerr; but, calling Rab Murray to his side, 
gave orders to mount every steed an' ride with him to Elm- 
tree Ha'. 

Wat's story soon reached every ear, an' heath-bell an' rose- 
bloom soon lay crushed aneath the feet o' the maidens, who 
had so eagerly gathered the gay blossoms but a little before. 
A maid had carried the tidings to Mirren and her mother, and 
never a flower that ever bloomed was wet wi' a richer dew 



227 



than the roses and forget-me-nots that lay in half-woven 
wreaths in the lap o' the gentle mother o' Hundalee. 

"Sweet mother," said Mirren, whose own poor heart was 
like to break — the eve o' her weddin', her uncle, her dead 
father's brother, the martyr o' a beardless king's wrath, an', 
perhaps, her betrothed at that moment had been meted out the 
same cowardly fate ! — "sweet mother, my brother even now is 
rallying his men in the court-yard to ride to Elmtree Ha'. Let 
me but go with him. Maybe the king will listen to the plead- 
ings o' the daughter o' a Kerr. Surely a king wars not with 
women, and his father, as you have told me, loved to listen to 
the sweet ballads that Miriam Cranstone — my own sweet 
mother — sang in her father's ha' ere she became the bride o' 
Hundalee." 

"You have indeed, sweet Mirren, brought to my memory 
something that, if not already too late, might save the life o' 
Polwarth, or even the Kerr; but I fear Dyrlinton's story's too 
true. Hand me yonder little box. Take this ring, ride with 
Hugh to Elmtree Ha', or Jedworth. Show it to the king, and 
tell him that his father gave it to me on my weddin' day as a 
token of his love for the Houses of Kerr an' Cranstone; an' 
surely the son of such a noble father would never hearken with 
unfeeling heart to the pleadings of a daughter of his father's 
friend." 

Soon up the roadway rode the Hugh o' Hundalee and his 
fair sister, never drawing bridle until they entered the court- 
yard o' Polwarth. 

If the House o' Hundalee had been making great prepara- 
tions for the coming wedding the Polwarths were preparing 

228 



for as grand a hame-coming for their gallant master's bride; 
for a nobler family never bent a bow or carried a lance on 
Scotia's Border than the House of Polwarth. With lightsome 
song the happy Polwarth was preparing for his departure to 
Hundalee when a henchman came running with the tidings 
that the king with a body o' men had entered the lands o' Pol- 
warth by the north yett. Armstrong's warning came back to 
Polwarth, and for a moment he turned pale; but not with fear. 
Quickly controlling himself he hurried to greet the king, at 
whose side rode the Baron o' Dunyon Keep. "Welcome, royal 
chief! welcome to the halls o' Polwarth. And you, neighbor 
Maxton, come ye to wish me joy on my wedding day? Or 
what means this array in the courtyard of your vassal, royal 
master?" As he spoke the Polwarth kissed the king's hand, 
who had dismounted from a handsome grey charger. 

"It means, bold serf," replied the king, who was then but 
a stripling in years but a man in experience, "that ere another 
hour passes the roadway of time the Knight of Polwarth will 
dangle from yonder tree, a warning to all traitors. We have 
but left in 'Gideon's Grove,' hanging from a row of trees, some 
of your bold kinsmen, whose swords never again will leap at 
the slogan of a Douglas." 

"Traitor!" exclaimed Polwarth. "Who dares brand the 
Knight of Polwarth a traitor?" 

"I do," said the Baron o' Dunyon Keep. "Did ye not at 
Jedworth Tryste, within my hearing, boast with Armstrong 
that your sword and followers were ever ready at the call of a 
Douglas?" 

"And what gift of the king does the Baron o' Dunyon 
Keep receive for playing the fox on his neighbors? The lands 

229 



o' Polwarth that his een ever craves for? If we have been 
loyal to the brave Douglas, Douglas was ever loyal to Scot- 
land, and, methinks, if jealous tongues had not poisoned the 
ear of our king, and placed him by their venom to brood be- 
hind prison walls, the king's advisers would never have dared 
urge their royal youthful master to strike such a blow against 
his Border subjects. But (and the Knight o' Polwarth turned 
to the king, who stood toying with his jeweled sword) I kneel 
for no mercy to one whose hand is already stained with the 
blood of my kin, who would have followed him even to the 
gates of London. All that I crave from your kingly will is, to 
let my followers go free. Some day you will have need of them 
— ay, against the very ones who whisper in your ear to-day the 
cunning words of friendship." 

Breaking his word across his knee Polwarth stood with 
arms folded across his breast, until the king ordered some of 
his followers — Maxton taking the lead — to bind him hand and 
foot and drag him to a tree that stood in all its summer foliage 
nearby, Maxton himself stood with the hempen cord in his 
hand, which had been thrown over a limb, as if he itched for 
the king's command to send his rival the way of the Kerr. But 
they had scarcely dragged him to the tree when, with wild 
shouts, Hugh o' Hundalee, with forty lancers and the bonnie 
Mirren galloped through the south yett. Halting before the 
king Hugh sprang from his steed, and helping his sister to dis- 
mount, they knelt hand in hand before the king, craving an 
audience with His Majesty. 

"1 grant it," said the king; "not for your sake," turning to 
Hugh, "but for the winsome maiden that kneels beside you," 

230 



and taking the bonnie Mirren by the hand he bade her arise 
and speak. 

Withdrawing her hand Mirren took from her finger the 
fing her mother gave her, and said, "Noble king, my mother 
bade me present this ring before you, a token of love from 
your brave sire to the Houses of Cranstone and Kerr, saying, 
'surely the son of such a noble father, whose ear was ever 
ready to listen to the pleadings of the weak, and whose sword 
was ready to defend them, would listen to the prayer of her 
daughter.' To-night, noble king, and see even now the sun 
sinks behind the purple mantle of the west, to-night the brave 
lad I lo'e was to make me the Lady o' Elmtree Ha' ; and now 
he stands by your command, bound hand and foot, as if he was 
a traitor, with the hempen cord around his neck, and the hand 
of a Maxton ready to deal with him as some say you have 
already dealt with my uncle o' Ferniherst. I ask you here on 
my knees, in the name o' our House, to spare the life of the 
Knight o' Polwarth ; and if it is not already too late, of Kerr 
and Armstrong, for never traitor blood ever ran in the veins of 
those men. Spare them, for the Border can little afford to lose 
them ; and you will have the blessings and prayers of every 
Hiaid and mother on the Border; and I, myself, will travel to 
the good St. Cuthbert's thrice a year, on my knees if need be, 
to pray and do penance for the future of Scotland's stripling 
king." 

"Ay," said the fiery Hugh, "and I am ready with fifty 
lances and twenty as good bowmen as ever peeled a sapling, to 
follow you into the very heart o' England. Say but the word, 
gracious king, and ere to-morrow's sun goes down Lord Dacre, 

231 



England's trusty general, is behind the walls o' Jedworth 
awaiting your Majesty's pleasure." 

"I wish not England's general," said the king, "but never 
man, be he gentle or simple, could withstand the pleadings of 
such a bonnie maid. Kerr and Armstrong have already hung, 
and even yet I am tempted to please the Maxton and hang the 
haught}^ Polwarth, whose sword hath been turned against his 
king, and who but a few minutes ago flung the praises of the 
Douglas' in my face. On one condition, fair Mirren, can your 
lover go free — that to-night there will still be a wedding at 
Hundalee, and I, Scotland's king, be honored in giving away 
to the Knight of Polwarth the bonniest lass on the Border. 
My father gave a token of love to your mother, and the son 
to-night will plead for the love of the knight and lady of Pol- 
warth." 

Grief and pleasure mingled freely that night at Hundalee ; 
grief for the fate of the brave Kerr and Armstrong, and joy 
that Willie Polwarth was still alive to wed the bonnie Mirren. 
The House o' Polwarth has to this day the ring that the king 
placed on the finger of the bride of Polwarth that night. 

Early the following morning some o' Hundalee's men 
found the Maxton pinned dead with an arrow through the 
neck to an oak near Dunyon Keep, the head of the arrow 
buried deep in the tree. No one knew who did the deed, and 
no one seemed to care, but none drew a stronger bow on all 
the Border than Hugh Kerr o' Hundalee. The tree was 
known ever afterwards as the "traitor's tree." In grandfath- 
er's young days the tree was cut down, and buried in its heart 
was the head of an arrow. 



232 



GRAEME DOUGLAS. 



About a stone's throw from the Auld Brig stands a big 
beech tree, carved and haggled with initials and rude signs, 
done by the young folk of the village, or those that once were 
— my own are there. I don't think the tree will be cut down, 
unless the new laird is a different man than his father, who 
now sleeps on the braeside with his kin. There is an irregular 
cut ring, about five feet from the roots, with the initials in it, 
"J. T. and G. D." You would know the character of the one 
that did the carving by the bold, deep-cut letters. "J. T." 
stands for Jessie Tynlan, youngest daughter of "Auld Yiddie" 
— or to give him his proper name and title, Mr. Adam. Tynlan, 
gravedigger. My picture of her is but a playmate's, or when 
she was a lassie of eighteen ; and as I write I see her crossing 
the stream by the stepping-stanes, her waving brown hair 
agleam with ripples of gold, scattering in unbound masses, 
hiding a plump fair neck that carried a dimpled round chin, 
a ripe bewitching mouth, rosy cheeks and laughing blue een; 
and as she laughs aloud I see two rows of perfect, even teeth. 
I never saw anything that could compare to them in whiteness, 
in those days, unless rows of newly-washed ewes. 

At mid-stream her little sun-browned hand is clasped in 
that of a tall, broad-shouldered youth of twenty or thereabouts 
— the second son of Norman Douglas, the village schoolmaster, 
and who was the "G. D." — Graeme Douglas — in the ring on 

233 



the big beech, and the carver of the same. He was a fine-look- 
ing callant, with black hair and piercing, commanding eyes. 
How I looked up to that merry, free-hearted young man ! He 
was a few years older than I, and like a boy I was quick at 
seeing the noble qualities of another; for as boys we are free 
from the jealousies that creep into us as we reach manhood; 
and then you know a big boy likes a smaller companion as a 
confidant, and he would tell me of all his future ambitions ; 
and I was ever to be his companion. 

Well, Jessie and Graeme, as you will understand, were 
sweethearts — had grown up within calling distance of one 
another, sat on the sams furms at the school, and I believe he 
took her share of punishment along with his own, for his 
father was a firm believer in the tawse. Before my story 
brings the twaesome before you Graeme had just come back 
from the High School in Edinboro,' and would soon return 
there to the University. He was to study for a doctor. Jessie 
and Graeme and I had (for it was the month of May) visited 
all our old haunts, and that night he had carved Jessie's and 
his own initials on the big beech. Next morning I walked 
with him a distance of tvv^o miles to the station to see him 
off. As he bade "good-bye" to me he said, as he held my 
hand : "Man, Jamie, div ye no think Dr. Douglas will look 
fine in gold letters?" My pleasure at his words were akin to 
his own. Continuing he told me how, the night afore, Jessie 
had made him happy by consenting to be his wife whenever 
he received his degree. "An' I can tell ye, lad," he said, "her 
words will make me work hard." 

234 



Graeme went off to Edinboro', and I turned back to the 
bench. I heard from him about every other week, and Jessie 
must have received one every other day. It was nearing the 
end of harvest. Graeme's letters were full of his ambitions, 
and I was looking forward to a visit he intended making to the 
village before entering on his winter studies. I was coming 
from the Cessfords. The fieldworkers had turned homewards, 
and gloamin' fa' was cooling the footways, and hastening the 
birds to the plantins. I could hear the plaintive "coo-coo" of 
the cushie, coming from the "Birk-wud." My thoughts were 
of Graeme. I crossed the whin-brae for a near cut, and as I 
ran down the Ha-lane who came round the turn, arm in arm, 
but Jessie Tynlan and Capt. Lyall, "the visitor" at the Big 
House. He was spending his furlough with his Border friends. 
A fine, dashing, curly-headed fellow he was, beloved by all 
the villagers. Jessie hung down her head as we passed, but 
Captain Lyall gave me a cheery "Fine night." I couldn't 
answer, for a heaviness that clogged my tongue, and crushed 
from my vision the brightness of my often-pictured future. I 
wandered aimlessly homewards, where my supper, long cold, 
awaited me; and where it remained untasted — Auld Nancie 
mumbling loud enough for my ears about "the fate o' callants 
that gorged thirsell's wi' stolen fruit." The next day I met 
Jessie ; but she was in too great a hurry to speak to me. Two 
or three days later I received a letter from Graeme. Every- 
thing was graund with him, but "was Jessie sick?" for he 
hadn't heard from her for over a week. 

For over a week I tried to answer Graeme's letter, but I 
couldn't, and gossips' tongues wagged pretty freely about 

235 



Captain Lyall and Jessie Tynlan. I was at dinner one day 
when auld Nancie burst in with the news that Jessie had run 
away with the captain. Grandfather said "I'll awa' doon an' 
see Auld Yiddie ; he'll need some sympathy." As for myself, I 
grabbed my bonnet and ran like a wild thing to the station. 
What for I do not know, for the train had been gone nearly 
two hours. Coming back I met the schoolmaster, who said, 
as he gripped me by the arm, "Dinna write to Graeme about 
Jessie, callant, because it might break him off his studies." I 
didna need to write to him — the next day brought Graeme 
himself by the first train. Folk say, "111 news travels fast," but 
he, poor fellow, had met it. After seeing a college friend away 
by the Glasgow train, the day before, he walked along the 
platform where the train from the South comes in, in time to 
see Jessie and Captain Lyall get off the train. It was two or 
three years later before I learned what passed between them — 
how Graeme had demanded an explanation — and how Captain 
Lyall, as he strode from the station with Jessie sobbing on his 
arm, indignantly refused to give any, and hailing a cab ordered 
the driver to take them to the Balmoral Hotel, leaving Graeme 
standing crushed and bewildered on the pavement; but only 
for a moment, for hailing another cab, Graeme rode after them, 
alighting almost at the same time at the hotel as Jessie and 
the captain. What followed saved Jessie's honor; and the 
following appeared in the Scotsman among the marriage 
notices — "At the Balmoral Hotel, on the — ult., by the Rev, Dr. 
McGregor, Jessie, youngest daughter of Adam Tynlan, Esq., 

C , Roxburghshire, to Captain Edward Lyall, oldest son 

of George Welton Lyall, W. S.," This drove away the dark 

236 



thoughts and fears that had gathered at Jessie's home; but 
poor Graeme was another man. His father wanted him, and 
tried every means to persuade him to go back to college, but 
no. Graeme would mope and lounge around the village. I 
tried my best to cheer him, but he only groaned ; and although 
he sought my company he was a dull companion. I lived in 
the hope that time would cure him. 

It was the beginning of the next year that Graeme came 
running into the shop with the news that he had determined 
to enlist. "Man, Jamie,' he said, "I want to drive the past 
clean out o' me, and there is a chance of some active service 
just now. I'm going off to Edinboro' in the morning. Draw- 
ing himself up to his full height he looked my hero once again. 
His mother was dead, and his father had little to say against 
it. His brother thought it was the best thing he could do. So 
again I saw the lad, that I would willingly have given my 
right hand for, off to Edinboro'. I received a letter a day or 
two later with the news that Graeme had enlisted. Letters 
came regularly from Ireland and Malta. Then word was re- 
ceived that he had been transferred to the 426. Highlanders, 
who were coming to Edinboro' Castle. I met him at the sta- 
tion in Edinboro', sunburnt-black as he said himself, "like % 
Kaffir;" but a grand-looking fellow was Sergeant Douglas. 

One summer Saturday Graeme and I were enjoying the 
boat ride to Aberdour. A little girl of about two years, with 
her nurse, was sitting near us. To show the baby the big 
fishes that pulled the boat the nurse held it up to the bulwarks. 
A sudden lurch almost threw the baby from the nurse's arms ; 
and I believe it would have tumbled overboard had not 



237 



Graeme sprang to her side and clutched the little one. The 
nurse was profuse in her thanks, and carrying the little one to 
the cabin returned with its mother. We were leaning over 
the bulwarks watching the Fife coast, which we were quickly 
nearing, when we heard the nurse saying as she returned, 
"That is the gentleman there, ma'am, the soldier one." We 
turned, and the mother of the child was Jessie — Mrs. Lyall. 
"Graeme — Jamie," she said, as she held out both her hands, 
"Oh ! Graeme, Graeme." I noticed her eyes were saddened 
with some sorrow. "How can I find words to thank you," she 
added, "or tell you of my heart's gratitude for saving my 
bairn." "The child was in no danger, Mrs. Lyall." But he 
could not get away from her so easy, for he had turned from 
her as he spoke. She held his hand, thanking him over and 
over again, with tears streaming down her cheeks. 

With a sudden movement Graeme pulled his hand from 
that of his old sweetheart, and snatching up the little girl that 
hung to her mother's dress, he covered her pure little face with 
kisses, saying as he set her down, "Now, now I'm repaid over 
and over again," and with a "Come on, Jamie, the boat's at 
Aberdour," he pulled me away in the direction of the gang- 
way. As we returned over the water again he broke the silence 
which had grown on us both since the meeting with Jessie. 
"I'll tell you what it is, Jamie; there is some mighty unseen 
power that compels you to forgive whether you will or no'. 
For years I have been trying to hate the memory even of my 
love for Jessie. Say, old chum, if ever you meet Jessie again, 
or her husband, tell them I forgave them both long ago." 

238 



You remember the call of the 426. to Egypt to the relief 
of that heroic leader, General Gordon? Probably some of my 
readers saw the grand farewell that was given them as they 
left — some for ever — Scotia's ancient capital. From the Castle 
to the station, from ground to tower, the city was decorated, 
not so much with bunting and flags as with human eager faces, 
cheering and shouting "Good luck" to the "Gallant Forty- 
Twa." God bless them, shoulder to shoulder they marched 
firmly and in order, stepping to the soul-thrilling music of the 
pipes down The Mound to the Waverley Station, a surging, 
crushing mass of civilians keeping close to them — weeping 
women, shouting men and boys who wished at that moment 
they were men. I hung by Graeme's side until we reached the 
station, where buirdly Highland policemen kept guard to keep 
back the unthinking mass of civilians that hindered the brave 
lads. 

'Tis hard to write the rest. You know of the brave work 
of our kilties. Amongst the first to gain the Egyptian walls 
was Graeme; and he was amongst the first to fall. Ah! well. 
The hope of the Douglases of old was to die in battle, face to 
the foe, and Graeme was not unworthy to hold a place along 
with his ancestors. 

I met Mr. and Mrs. Lyall on Princess street. I told them 
of poor Graeme's fate ; but I did not give them Graeme's mes- 
sage until we stood at the grave of Jessie's father. What they 
said was enough, merely a simple "Thank you, thank you;" 
but the picture they have sent to me of their boy satisfies me. 
They have called him Graeme Douglas. God make him worthy 
of the name. 



239 



JEAN, THE GYPSY. 



It was an ill day for the Widow Calder when her son, the 
village "ne'er dae weel," brang as his wife, Mag Gordon, a 
daughter of Kirk Yetholme, the home of the border gypsies. 
Ay, and a shame to the house o' Calder, for Mag was a wild 
creature, wild even for the tribe she came from, but she was 
good enough for Ray Calder, had he only been man enough to 
smoke his pipe in a home of his own finding. 

It was a year's misery for Betty, as the widow was fondly 
called by the villagers, that ended with the death of Ray, killed 
by falling from the kirk steeple, where he was repairing some 
damage done by the storm, and the freeing of Mag from the 
bonds of the houseweller, leaving an open way for her to 
wander back to the tents of her people — wandered southwards, 
leaving behind, seemingly without a tear, a wee, dark-eyed, 
black-haired lassie, to cheer or grieve the heart of Betty, as 
the years would gather. And Betty's heart gave forth many 
a prayer, and from her eyes fell many a tear, for the welfare o' 
the wee orphan. 

"I wad," said Betty, as the lassie grew older and bonnier, 
"that she had less o' the gypsy's beauty in her looks, and less 
o' the wild spirit, for she has a kind heart; but it's no the puir 
bairn's blame, for even if her mother hednae been an acorn frae 
the tree o' the wanderer, her faither, my ain bairn, was a wild 
rover." 



240 



Clever, changeable and bonnie, was Jean. Every lad o' the 
village and shire knew that same to their heart's misery, but 
nobody was to blame for loving her. Even at school, callants 
would take the "pawmies" that sometimes she well deserved. 

She could have boasted — had she been a flirt — of many a 
love-sick wooer before she was eighteen, but Jean was no flirt. 
She couldn't help the lads from falling in love with her, and 
she sometimes thought she loved some lad better than another, 
when a new comer would wander her way, and, of course, 
Jean's changeable heart would welcome another wooer. But 
what need I dwell on her moods? Some have blamed her for 
her fickleness, and some have tried to shield her; and I am 
telling her story as I knew it best myself. 

When she was still eighteen, Ewen Lander, a lad of 
twenty-four, came to the ha' as under gamekeeper from the 
banks of Annan Water. None had a gleger (quicker) e'e, and 
bird or hare would need to have the speed of the lightning 
when Ewen aimed. But, poor fellow, a steel trap never held 
a captive foumart (wildcat) surer than he was held by the glint 
o' Jean's dark e'en. Muir fowl, or even the timid rabbit, might 
have fed at his feet, and he would have seen them not, and 
Jock Linn, who had been the means of introducing the twae 
some, found himself slighted, as he watched them from the 
brig, meandering slowly up the primrose brae. But Jock could 
throw a slight over his shoulder as easy as he could a bushel 
of oats; so, with a laugh, he turned Smiddywards, singing: 
"What care I for a lass that is fickle, 
They're as plenty as blossoms in May, 
Sae I jook ilka blow o' love's sickle 
Singing hey deri, ho deri, hey." 

241 



"Jean has met her match this time," some one said; and 
I believe she was just as much in love with Ewen as Ewen was 
with her; and if Mag, her mother, had never crossed the border 
again — for she had taken a man again of her own tribe and 
was traveling, so a Yetholme tinker told, with the English 
Blythies, a gypsy tribe of Northumberland — had she never 
come Teviot ward, this tale would have a brighter ending. 

Jean was at the Ha' sewing for the ladies, being deft with 
her fingers. Betty sat on a stool at the doorway, knitting, half 
hid by the honeysuckle that clung luxuriantly over the walls of 
her little whitewashed cottage, or hallan, her thoughts of Jean 
and Ewen, for he had been at the cottage the evening before, 
and had trimmed her little garden. 

"That's a guid lad," she had said to Jean, as they sat at 
breakfast that morning — "a lad that'll likely make ye a guid 
husband and be able to gie ye a guid hame; and I could close 
my auld een in peace if I kent ye was weel provided for, for 
it'll no be long, lassie, before I'll hae to gang and join my ain 
guidman. But I hae tried to dae my duty towards you, as God 
has dealt wi' me." 

Jean had only blushed and given Betty a kiss as she put 
on her hat and prepared to go to the ha', a kiss that had ling- 
ered kindly with Betty all day, and many a silent prayer she 
gave for the welfare of Jean, and now, as the sun crept nearer 
the forest, and the song of the mavis turned more mellow as it 
fluttered nestward where its mate, with mother chirps, awaited 
her lord to proudly show him their half feathered younglings 
before covering them with her downy wings from the heavy 
dews of evening. Betty would turn a longing look towards 

242 



the ha' road, knowing that soon Jean would come round the 
turning. 

When a figure came up the roadway, halting not until she 
came to Betty's cottage, and in a voice that Betty knew, altho' 
the form was somewhat changed, for it was Mag, demanded 
the whereabouts of her lassie. 

"Gang away, wummin, gang away," exclaimed Betty, in 
trembling words; "gang back yer ain ill-gate (way). The 
lassie is daein' weel," 

"I want to see my bairn," said Mag, and as she spake she 
crushed herself into the house past Betty, and sitting down 
dourlike on a chair, seemed determined to await Jean's coming. 

"Oh, wummin, wummin !" pleaded Betty, as she followed 
her in, "dinna disgrace the lassie wi' yer presence, but take ye 
back to Northumberland amang the Blythes. The lassie has 
grown up thinking you are dead to her forever, and a bright 
future seems dawning over her, you come back to blight the 
sma' pleasures that hae clustered aroond her by saying, 'Lassie, 
look at yer mither!' " 

"And what will she see. Bet Calder," said the gypsy, as 
she turned a face, fierce in its tawny hue, upon Betty — a face 
that once was as beautiful even as Jean's, altho' ever swarthy 
— "a woman of a royal race, who never bowed the knee in 
homage to none, not even the Pharoahs of old. Ay, woman ! 
she should be proud to know me as her mother." 

But her tongue halted, for the one that they awaited ap- 
peared in the doorway, radiant in all her rare, young beauty; 
and as Mag arose, none have doubted but what they were kin. 

243 



"B}^ my race !" exclaimed Mag, turning to Betty, who 
sat with bowed head, "Tinker Mathie told me o' this rare 
beauty. But, woman ! she is a queen — a queen of the Romany. 
Come, kiss me, my dawtie, kiss your mother!" 

"Mother," gasped Jean, as she stepped back; "what dae 
ye mean?" 

"Ay, your mother, lass. What say ye, Mistress Calder? 
Am I not the lassie's mother?" 

"Ay," moaned Betty, "an' mair's the pity. But noo ye've 
seen her, gang, wummin, an' leave her to the upbringing she's 
haen." 

"Na, na, Mistress Calder, or guid mother, I should call 
you, I'll just e'en stay awhile an' feast my een on my dawtie. 
Dinna fear me, lassie," she said, as Jean evaded her, and run- 
ning to Betty, flung her arms around her, trembling at the 
confession that had been thrust upon her. 



And Mag stayed for weeks, to Betty's sorrow and shame. 
But she had the tongue of cunning, oiled with flattery, an' 
Jean, being of her own blood, soon was an eager listener to 
Mag's rare tales of gypsy life, and poor Ewen lingered long at 
the trysting tree, for Jean, who seldom came, and at her com- 
ing was but a dour listener to Ewen's murmurings. And the 
clatter of the gossip was carried further and earned a better 
reward than the call of the springtime crowherd, for some told 
how they had seen Mag and Jean — told when Ewen had re- 
turned heart heavy from the trysting tree, and watched his 
face grow black at their words — told of the mother and daugh- 
ter visiting and staying night after night at the gypsy camp, 

244 



ayont the forest; and Ewen would wander down by Betty's, 
hungering for a glimpse of Jean, and would find Betty, her 
fingers idle, and her knitting lying on the floor, and all that 
she would say would be — but it was words dragged from the 
heart: "My puir, puir, lassie; my bairn, my bairn!" 

But Mag left at last, and carried the wish of Betty, "that 
she would stop longer at her next camping ground than she 
stayed with her." And at her going Jean seemed to be trans- 
formed into the old Jean again, kinder and more attentive to 
Betty than ever, and Ewen — "puir fool," as Jock Linn called 
him — forgot all her neglect of him, and gloaming ever found 
him hanging over the wee gate at the cottage, or wandering 
along the banks with Jean as a willing companion. But it 
was merely a weather gaw — a blink o' sunshine before a 
greater storm. 

It was whispered by them claiming to be confidential 
friends of Ewen and Jean, that there would be a "foot shakin' " 
at Betty's come the Martinmass, for Jean had named the day 
that was to make Ewen happy. And Betty had prayed that 
Mag might never come that way again, "for oh," she had said 
to Minnie Ross, "that wummin has an awfu' power over the 
lassie. Jean doesna like her an' scunners at her name — when 
she's away. But Mag has the eye of the evil yin, and I'll never 
feel that the lassie's safe frae her power until her wandering 
mother is dead." 

It was nearing harvest. Betty could see as she watched 
for Jean coming frae the ha' the redness of the apples in the 
orchard, tinted a deeper red with the glory of the sunset, and 
the drooping grain in the minister's glebe almost ripe for the 
sickle. 



245 



Jean was surely staying for supper at the ha', for the smith 
had passed, and she heard the miller's wife calling "Supper! 
supper !" loud enough for her guidman to hear above the din 
of the mill. She turned into the cottage to eat her own, but 
merely poured her tea to turn cold, and there she sat until the 
dark'ning brought Ewen, but no Jean. 

"I'll gang to the ha'," said Ewen, with a fullness creeping 
to his mouth, and forgetting to stroke puir Tabbie that purred 
at his legs. 

"She left earlier than usual," he was told at the ha', and the 
butler, a new man, told him that he saw her talking to a 
strange woman down by the glen. 

"What like was the woman?" demanded Ewen, his lips 
becoming dry. 

"A tall gypsy-looking woman with a red shawl over her 
shoulders." 

"Mag," was all that Ewen could say, but it had an awful 
meaning. 

"I want my gun," he said to the head keeper, as he rushed 
into the lodge, never stopping to knock. "I want my gun. 
There's poachers down by the forest." And before he could be 
stopped, he had seized his gun and pouch, and was crashing 
through by the whin. The head keeper had to pull on his 
boots, and ere he got to the door Ewen vanished amongst the 
birk. 

"The callant maun be mad," said the keeper; "but I'll get 
Jock Linn" — turning to his wife — "he's on my way, and send 
Willy up to the ha', and tell them we have gaen after poachers 
over by the forest. They maun be after young pheasants." 

246 



Crashing through whin and thorns, careless alike of tear 
or scratch, merely guarding his gun from getting caught in 
the branches, Ewen, with the demon of jealousy and bitterness 
urging him forward, sought the quickest way to the Roman 
road, where he knew that the gypsies sometimes camped. And 
as he tore himself through a large thorn hedge above the glen, 
away in the distance, above the dykeway, he could see the faint 
glimmer of a fire — a glimmer that told him of the camping 
ground of the gypsies. 



Poor Jean sat with troubled heart within the opening of 
royalty. A tent a little better than the other dirty apologies 
for such in the center of the gypsy camp. Mag sat near her, 
and seemed to be trying to persuade her to leave, by flattering 
promises, the abode of the house dwellers, while Mat Blythe, 
the acknowledged king and stepson of Mag, stood hanging 
over them resting on his gun, while his comrades and followers 
cursed, sang and played with a dirty pack of cards near the 
glimmering wood fire that guided Ewen in all his fury towards 
them. 

It was Jean that now spake as Ewen drew near. 

"Hoo can I leave Betty, that has been a mother to me; or 
Ewen, that I hae promised to marry at the Martinmass, Ewen 
that I love sae week I ken the bluid, that is yours, that runs 
sae wild in my veins, mocks me in my attempts to live the life 
of the villager and urges me — ay, drags me to the tents of the 
wanderer. But, oh, woman — you that I know is my mother — 
leave me in peace. Unloosen your power. Dinna tempt me. 
Let me gang back to Betty, that I ken waits sae longingly for 

247 



my coming, an' to Ewen, whom my heart loves. Let me gang, 
an' trouble me nae mair, and I'll pray for your welfare wher- 
ever ye gang," an' Jean arose to her feet. 

"Sit ye doon," said Mag. "Think ye, that I hae risked my- 
sel' across the Cheviots into the country of the Faa's and hae 
wiled ye thus far, to let you go back to the hated housedweller? 
Nay, nay, Jean ; blood runs thicker than water, an' gin ye 
winna gang wi' guid grace, we hae the hemp." 

But a cry from a gypsy of, "Some one comes!" stilled 
Mag's speech, and forced every one to their feet, to make way 
for the stranger, who rushed, torn and bleeding, in the direc- 
tion of Jean, who, exclaiming, "Ewen, my Ewen !" gave a 
bound towards him, but was thrown aside by the powerful 
Mat, who advanced with a devilish light in his eyes, leaving 
his gun in the hands of Mag, to meet the hated housedweller. 

"What want ye here?" demanded the gypsy of Ewen, who 
now stood surrounded by the swarthy tribe of wanderers. 

"What needs ye ask, an' ye see for yourself? I come for 
Jean, as ye maun weel ken, sae let her come, and I will forget 
that a Blythe has crossed the border." 

"Jean has nae wish to gang back to the house dwellers," 
spake Mag. "She will stay with her mother and kin, sae take 
yer ways back, or yer blood be on your own head." 

"Let me gang, mother?" pleaded Jean. 

"No," sneered Mag, as she thrust Jean to a side, "the 
whaup will never moot (molt) in the dookit of the house- 
dweller. Let the young keeper seek a bird of his own flock." 

But Ewen, inspired by Jean's pleading, made a move as 
if to reach her, raising his gun as if to threaten any that would 

248 



bar his way. Some of the gypsies drew back, but Mat, who 
was known to flinch for none, and a man of powerful stature, 
almost a giant beside Ewen — and Ewen was one whose 
strength of arm was kent even to the vales of Cumberland — ■ 
sprang in front of him. 

"Stand out my gate," thundered Ewen, but Mat merely 
answered by rushing towards him, clutching with all his 
strength the barrel of the gun, that gleamed by the faint light 
of the moon that seemed to have arisen just over them, intend- 
ing by his superior strength to wrest it from him. 

But Ewen, maddened with his love for Jean and his hate 
towards the gypsy, with a mighty wrench, that seemed more 
than human, freed the gun, and, grasping it by the barrel as he 
took a step backwards, brought the butt crashing down on the 
skull of Mat, crushing the swarthy giant to his knees. 

With a scream Jean sped from Mag's side in the direction 
of Ewen, intending to shield him from the wrath and venge- 
ance of Mag, who, frenzied at the fall of her stepson, had 
raised the gun — Mat's gun — to her shoulder, and was aiming 
at Ewen, who stood over the body of the gypsy, awed at the 
deed he had done, and fired just as Jean had run in front of 
him. 

When the head keeper, followed by Jock Linn and some 
of the villagers, led to the scene of the tragedy by Mag's fatal 
shot and the glimmer of the dying embers of the deserted fire — 
deserted, for the gypsies had fled — Jean, poor Jean ! lay dead 
over the dying, brave-hearted Ewen, the body oi Mat having 
been carried away by his kin ; for Ewen's blow had been as 
fatal as Mag's shot. 

249 



As they wended their way slowly, with their burden, to- 
wards the village, some one ran ahead to the minister's, for 
his was the task to break the news to Betty. But a messenger 
had reached Betty's cottage before him — a messenger that had 
led her away, where waited her guidman. 

And Jock Linn, he that could throw a slight so easily over 
his shoulder, carried a burden to Annan Water, a message by 
word of mouth, that he turned thrice from the door with a 
message that has left a glint of silver among the brown of his 
young head, a message that led a weeping mother to the banks 
of the Teviot. 




250 



FOR MOTHER'S SAKE. 



A Story of a Strike. 

An open letter lying on the white deal table was the silent 
cause of the grief of her who sat with bowed head and clasped 
hands on her chair — mother's chair — near the open fireplace, 
and of the anger of him whose tall, rugged figure — straight 
even with the forty years' (he was nigh on sixty) plowing and 
reaping on the stony lands of Duddingstone — nearly touching 
in its height the oaken peat-tinted joists of the mud floored, 
straw-thatched cottage of the Maclvors. Such is he, Donald 
Maclvor, and she that weeps is his wife, the giver to him of 
three lads and two rosy-cheeked lassies that are out at service, 
for everyone has to work; for health (no small gift) and not 
siller, has ever been the fortune of the Maclvors. 

"Never let him darken oor door again," he was saying, 
when the door opened, and a young man, about twenty-five, 
that a glance would tell was a son of him who spoke with the 
ring of anger in his voice, entered, and striding over to the 
mother, put his arms around her, and said, "Dinna grieve, 
mother, dinna grieve; I will go and see Ferguson to-morrow 
and try to make a bargain with him to keep Frank out o' jail." 

"Out o' jail!" exclaimed the elder. "Let him go to jail, 
after robbing the man who was ever my friend." 

"Oh ! dinna be sae harsh wi' the laddie," moaned the moth- 
er; "he didna mean to steal; oorsels are to blame." 

251 



"To blame !" burst in the father, "to blame for slavin' an' 
scrimpin' oorsels to gie him a good education, to make a gen- 
tleman o' him; him that has turned oot a na, I'll no' say 

the vile word." And the old man threw himself on a chair. 

As David (for that is the name of him who has just en- 
tered) tells his mother of his plans for saving his brother from 
the guarded walls of the Calton jail, and from the disgrace of 
having their good name dragged through the gutters of crime, 
it will be well to explain the shadow that has entered the home 
of the Maclvors. 

Frank, the youngest of the lads, and the great hope of 
his mother (her "clever laddie"), the pride of the family, the 
one they had slaved and hained for — even down to his young- 
est sister, who had given nearly all her sma' earnings to help 
make her brother a gentleman — had fallen. He had gone 
through college with honours, and had obtained a start in life 
as an accountant with Ferguson & Fleming, shipbuilders and 
shipowners, in Edinboro's seaport — Ferguson being an old 
friend of his father — but had listened to the wily tongues of 
gambling companions. Finding his earnings insufficient tO' sat- 
isfy the cravings of the gambling table, he had lent a willing 
ear to the tempter, and had forged a cheque for £200 with the 
name of the firm. It was detected and he was arrested just as 
the last shilling was being drawn with a professional's ease 
into the wallet of the winner. The open letter on the table was 
from Mr. Ferguson, telling of their clever laddie's crime. It 
was a sad blow, and fell heaviest on the mother. For her sake, 
David, the second boy, who was a joiner, determined to try 
some way or other to save Frank. Robert, the oldest son, we 

252 



may explain, was already married, and had his own cares. 

The following morning a young man, whose ruddy cheeks 
made the senior member of the firm sigh for the gladsome past 
that he had spent among the Lanarkshire hills, was admitted 
to the private office of Mr. Ferguson. 

"I am David Maclvor," he explained, as Mr. Ferguson, 
a pleasant-looking old gentleman, turned from his desk toward 
him. 

"Indeed !" exclaimed the old gentleman ; "I am afraid if 
you have come about your brother, as I suppose Frank is, that 
I have little good to say of him, and can do but little to save 
him." 

"Oh ! yes, you can, Mr. Ferguson ; for poor mother is 
breaking her heart over the disgrace ; and sir" — and as the 
young man spoke he stretched himself to his full height — "I 
have come from Duddingstone, where I am counted a fair me- 
chanic, to offer my strength and skill — for I have no money — 
to your firm until every penny of the £200 is paid back with 
interest. I will work night and day, God willing, if need be, 
if only for mother's sake you will use your influence to get my 
erring brother his freedom. I ken" (and David got back to 
the Doric) "the laddie maun hae fallen beneath the glamour 
and excitement o' the evil game." 

"I admire your spirit, young man, and for both your 
father and mother's sake would like to be lenient with your 
brother, but for his own good and as an example to others he 
must be punished." 

"Oh ! but I ken," said David, "he has already gotten a les- 
son that he will remember for life; an' it's no' like you were 

253 



gaun to lose onything; £200 may be a sma' sum for a big 
firm like yours ; to us it is a fortune ; but my labor an' skill 
you will get till every penny is paid." 

"Well," said Mr. Ferguson, "1 will speak to Mr. Fleming 
about it. In the meantime you had better see your brother. 
He is in the Calton jail." 

David found his brother sullen, and seemingly indifferent 
whether he was punished or not. "What can I do?" he said. 

"If I am let free nobody will employ me; my character's 
gone." 

"But think of mother and father, and all of us. Mother is 
breaking her heart over it; and you've robbed father of the 
peace o' mind and ease he ought to have in his old age, after 
slaving to give us a start in life." 

"Dinna cast up to me about mother and father. Leave me 
alone. It's mysel' and mysel' only that'll be punished for my 
wrongdoings," impatiently muttered Frank, as he turned away. 

"No, it is not you that'll be punished most. Think of moth- 
er! Think of the bright future she had pictured out for you. 
Think of the luxuries she denied herself to give you a better 
education than the rest o' her bairns. Then can you say, 'It's 
mysel' an' mysel' only that'll be punished?' Oh! Frank, Frank, 
be a man in the future, for you can if you will only ask help 
from Him whom we were taught to look up to at mother's 
knee. I feel sure Mr. Ferguson will get you clear." And David 
with bowed head, left his brother and went to the lodging 
which he had secured in the morning. 

Next morning David, who had been waiting for nearly 
two hours behind the big gates leading to the works, entered 

254 



the office behind Mr. Ferguson, impatient to know the firm's 
conclusion. 

"I see you are on deck in good time," said Mr. Ferguson, 
as he took a seat after handing a chair to David. "Well, Mr. 
Fleming and I considered what you were saying yesterday, 
and have decided to take you at your word. Sit down, sit down ; 
no need to thank me until you hear all. Remember you arc 
loading your young shoulders with no light burden. The high- 
est wages we pay journeymen joiners is thirty shillings 
( £ I, IDS.) a week ; so, even if you could pay one pound a week, 
it will take you four years. No, we want no interest. As to 
your brother, Mr. Fleming and I think that the best step he 
can take is to enlist. He is a well-built young man, and any 
regiment will be glad to have him. Six years' service — so much 
the better if it's foreign service — will make a man of him. 
Your mother will be prouder of him than she ever was before. 
This mistake of his by that time will be forgotten. So you 
can begin work here next Monday. Now write your mother 
and ease her burden a little. Your brother will be free this 
afternoon, on condition that he is to don the red coat." 

The grasp which David gave Mr. Ferguson's hand told 
that gentleman of the thanks which the former fain would have 
expressed had his tongue been free from the overflow of a 
grateful heart. 

The next Monday David carried his tools into the ship- 
yard, and Frank learned the duties of the raw recruit along 
with others of the awkward squad on the Castle Esplanade. 



255 



David had been over two years in the shipyard, and, owing 
to his skill and the large orders the firm had received and 
turned off the stocks in that time, he had managed to pay more 
than half of the £200; and to cheer up his mother a wee bit 
he had also given her a present at New Year's time. Mr. Fer- 
guson had been quick to note the skill of the young Maclvor, 
and gave him many a good, paying job (for piece work was 
done largely at that time) that required an active brain and a 
steady hand. Wages were reasonably good, and both masters 
and men seemed contented, but in a large workshop or yard 
there are always one or two lazy grumblers that create mis- 
chief. Wellington Kilday thought that he had been born for a 
nobler cause than to plane a ship's deck. He was a poor work- 
man, and seldom got beyond the job he at present laboured at. 
Over a gill stowp one evening he waxed eloquent before a doz- 
en mates, as he told how he had figured up the great wealth that 
was rapidly flowing into the coffers of the firm, and the miserly 
dribblings that came to him and his fellow workmen as a re- 
turn for the amount of skill and sweat they had given, and that 
had made the yard to rank amongst the first in shipbuilding. 
And from the discontented growlings of Wellington Kilday 
came a strike that nearly closed the gates against the wood- 
workers for that year. They sent in a demand for a penny 
more an hour, and an increase of 30 per cent on all piecework. 
They might have got a small raise, had they placed the demand 
in the hands or mouth of anyone except Kilday, but he, proud of 
being a leader, with the stride of a stage king and the manners 
of a Hottentot, presented himself as the representative of the 
United Shipwrights before the green table of the unapproach- 

2S6 



able Fleming. This was a mistake, to start with, for Mr. Flem- 
ing was no man to mingle with his workmen. He was brought 
up to believe (for his family boasted of their blue blood) that 
he was doing a noble work of charity to the working classes 
when he became a partner of a shipbuilding enterprise. "Well, 
sir!" thundered Mr. Fleming, "what is your errand?" 

With hands holding back his coat so that the tinselled red 
badge of office that told people that the wearer was "President 
of the United Shipwrights" could be seen by the haughty 
Fleming, Wellington Kilday spoke: "I am the leader of my 
fellow-tradesmen, and in their name I come to demand a rise 
of one penny an hour, and 30 per cent, on all piecework ; and 
if we don't receive a favourable answer by the end of the week, 
I — " and here Kilday stretched himself in the glory of his feel- 
ing — "I will call every man out." 

"How dare you enter my private office on such an er- 
rand? Have you read the rules? Are you intoxicated, speak- 
ing to me in that way — me that is a benefactor to you and all 
your kind? Here, Graham, show this fellow out, and send the 
office boy to sweep out my room." And the poor man fell 
back in his padded chair, exhausted, muttering, "They will de- 
mand carriages next, to take them to and from their work." 

That night, at a special meeting called by Kilday, he told 
in scarlet colourings of his unsuccessful errand. "Insulted me 
in your cause, but I made the pampered aristocrat tremble in 
his chair." It would take a long time and much space to tell 
of Kilday's speech; but it gained him the vote of the meet- 
ing, for in one voice they proclaimed a strike unless Ferguson 
and his haughty partner granted their demands. 

257 



The next Monday every woodworker, except apprentices 
and David Maclvor, waited outside the big gates for the grant- 
ing of the rise that came not. I say all but David and the ap- 
prentices. David, as a member of the union, had been called 
upon by Kilday, to tell him (as he was not at the meeting) the 
decision of his fellow-tradesmen. David told him — and the 
way he drove a nail to the head in the oaken bulkhead con- 
vinced Kilday that he meant it — he had no reason to strike, 
and, besides, he had an agreement with the firm, which on the 
honour of a man he was bound to abide by, that made it impos- 
sible for him to join with the strikers. 

"Blackleg and spy," muttered Kilday as he sprang up the 
companion-way leading from the cabin where David was work- 
ing; but David heard him not. 

It takes a good deal of courage to work in a yard where 
your brother tradesmen are out on strike, and David found 
this. Where he lodged many a taunt was thrown out regard- 
ing blacklegs and spies, and going and coming from the yard 
he had to run the gauntlet of heavier missiles than sneers and 
vile names. But David kept going and coming, unarmed and 
undaunted. Before a week of the strike had passed, many a 
one wished they had had the nerve of David. 

"You are wanted by Mr. Fleming at once," said one of 
the clerks, as David passed the office, on his way back from 
dinner. 

"Ah, yes ; you are the young man we were pleased to 
grant a favour concerning his brother," said Mr. Fleming, as 
David entered the dreaded room of the green table. 

258 



"Yes," said David; "and I have been ever grateful for it." 
And he crimsoned to the hair roots with the remembrance. 

"Yes, yes ; I am pleased to know that I have one trades- 
man that is grateful, and respects those who give them the 
opportunity to earn the bread and butter that keeps them and 
their families alive." And providence in broadcloth wiped the 
moisture from his gold-rimmed glasses. Again David crim- 
soned, but with another feeling. 

"Now," said Fleming, "I have called you in here to my 
private office" — and the great man spelt "My" with a capital M 
on a sheet of paper that lay on the table before him — "I have 
called you in to give you an opportunity to show your 
gratitude." And the Fleming paused, seemingly waiting to give 
David a chance to say something, but the broad-shouldered 
Maclvor only closed his lips the tighter. 

"Let me see, you owe us yet nearly one hundred pounds. 
Now, to be plain with you, as you must know, since your fool- 
ish mates went out on strike, our work has been dropping be- 
hind, and we must have our orders completed by the end of 
the year, or we have to pay a forfeit of over one hundred 
pounds a day. Now we want you to go with Captain Shirlaw 
of the "Fiona" to Copenhagen and help to pick out amongst 
the Danes about forty good workmen. Shipbuilding is dull 
there just now, and it will be charity to employ them." 

"Sir — and David stepped nearer the table — "Sir, you say 
I owe you £ioo, and your claim is just and right; and you and 
Mr. Ferguson I thank with my whole heart, and also in the 
name of my father and mother, for it would have broken their 
hearts to have had Frank to go to prison branded as a thief; 

259 



but am I not, with what God has been good enough to endow 
me with — a skillful eye and cunning hand — repaying you? Ay, 
and surely with good measure, repaying you according to our 
agreement 'Grateful for the opportunity to work !' It's you 
that ought to be grateful to the great God, whose charitable 
hand has kindly fallen upon you, giving you the privilege — 
man's greatest privilege — to open a way where your humbler 
brothers may toil to earn, as you say, 'their bread and butter.' 
Bread and butter ! many are thankful to get bread alone. No, 
sir, little as I admire such men as Wellington Kilday, whose 
glory is but to agitate, and little as I sympathize with strikes, 
which are but shorter roads to poverty and degradation, yet as 
long as a man favoured with wealth, a shrewder eye, and 
blessed with talents to become a leader in the building of cities 
or ships, or handling the affairs of nations, forgets that the 
same Supreme Hand that made him made also the hewers of 
stone and wood and diggers of ditches — your humble brothers 
— so long will there be strikes and discontent. A man crushed 
and humbled by the scorn of his brother, master or leader, 
is a willing tool in the hands of the agitators. No, sir; I will 
work and plan for you at my trade until every penny of what 
I owe is paid, but when you ask me to become an agent to lead 
in foreigners to fill the benches of my countrymen — a renegade 
to my kin and yours — I say no." 

"You are too hasty, young man. Mr. Ferguson already 
warned me of your pride. Think what our offer is ; remember 
how it will benefit your mother and father. Not only will we 
give you a receipt in full for what you owe us, but we will give 
you £50 pounds besides, and Haddan's place as second fore- 

260 



man. Haddan is going as ship's carpenter on the 'Stirling Cas- 
tle.' Think; you may never have such another chance in your 
lifetime. I am sure Kilday, or any of his followers, would jump 
at it." 

"Then," said David, "you had better get Kilday, for all of 
your wealth could not employ me in such a cause." 

At that moment Mr. Ferguson entered, and nodding to 
David took a seat beside his partner, who, turning to him, 
told him what he thought of David's foolishness. 

"I am sure," said Mr. Ferguson, smiling kindly, to David, 
"that none of your trade mates would refuse such an offer, 
even though in doing so they harmed you." 

"You have never tried them, sir. You judge us all by 
Kilday. I am sure, Mr. Ferguson, if you were to call in 
Chisholm, or Kennedy, they would give you the same answer. 
Not only that, but I think, if you were to call them into your 
office and treat them like men regarding their demands, they 
will leave your office to return to their benches, you and them 
both satisfied with the interview. I know that by this time 
they have become disgusted with Kilday." 

"Very well," said Mr. Ferguson, "we will think over it; 
you can return to your work." 

"A fiery-tempered young man," said Mr. Fleming, "but 
seemingly a thinker." 

"Yes," said his partner, "if such men would be leaders we 
would have fewer strikes ; but it is ever the Kildays, grumblers 
against enterprise or thrift, whose tongues wag, leaders but to 
air their vanity. They imitate the very powers they orate 
against. Such men as Maclvor, if they strike, it is not in sym- 

261 



pathy with such as Kilday, but in the spirit of principle. Now, 
suppose we have a talk with Chisholm and Kennedy? They 
have been in our employ over ten years. I know how to take 
them. We can, without even you losing any dignity, meet 
them half way in regard to their demands as per hour, any way. 
We lose nothing in comparison to what we are sure to lose 
if this strike continues much longer. It will take a month to 
initiate a gang of Danes, besides driving good workmen away 
from our yard." 

"Give in to them!" growled Fleming. "Have your own 
way, but I believe in starving the striking passion out of them." 

As David ran up the gangway a rivet red from the coals 
struck him a burning blow on the cheek; looking up, he saw 
it came from the tongs of Kilday's brother, who was a rivet 
boy. The gleam of the boy's eyes did not ease the pain any, 
but opened David's eyes to new dangers, and it was no sur- 
prise for him to find a plank that he was using for scaffolding 
over the main hatchway nearly sawn in two. That would have 
given him a fall through two decks to the hold, amongst a lot 
of pig iron. It was little wonder that David was in fighting 
humour when the six o'clock bell rang. 

Whatever possessed Kilday — who liked to urge others — 
to shake his fist in David's face as he passed through the gate 
on his way home, no one ever found out; but shake it he did, 
calling him vile names the time. It was an evil moment for 
Kilday, for David's fist shot straight for the nose of the agi- 
tator, landing with such force that he went staggering amongst 
his companions, bleeding and gasping like a stuck pig. A cry 
of fair play came from the crowd, and a way was cleared for 

262 



them, but Kilday had slunk away with the blow, his legs prov- 
ing wiser than his tongue. 

But it turned the tide of feeling, and while some hooted 
the runaway leader, others cheered David; and that night, 
when the United Shpwrights gathered (the meeting being op- 
ened without Kilday) it was voted that Chisholm and Kennedy 
try to get a hearing with Mr. Ferguson and settle the strike, 
even though they should have to go back at the old rate of 
wages. And that is how it was that next morning, when Chis- 
holm and Kennedy presented themselves at the office, Mr. Fer- 
guson said : "The very men I wanted to see." David, un- 
awares, had cleared a path that opened to peace, for every man 
went back to work the next day with the rise of one halfpenny 
an hour on time work, the piece work remaining as it was. 

"Sit down, Maclvor, sit down," said Mr. Ferguson to Da- 
vid a week after the strike had been settled. "Haddin sails 
Tuesday, and I think you had better take his place. Chisholm 
was telling me about you and Kilday. Now, we want a man 
that can command the respect of his brother workmen, and I 
think we have found one in you. The rest of the money you 
owe us — here is a receipt for the whole — we will just call it 
arles, to bind you to us till you get something better than we 
can offer. You needn't say a word. I know you did all you 
have done for your mother's sake. I am doing this for her son ; 
for, laddie, she was the bonniest and sweetest lass I ever kent." 
****** 

And Frank — what became of him ? He was with the Gor- 
dons in their gallant charge up the Dargai heights, and none 

263 



gave a better account of themselves on that world-renowned 
charge than Frank; and to-day in South Africa his name is 
spoken of as one who will receive the Victoria Cross ; but if I 
were to tell you the deed he did you would know him, Mac- 
Ivor is but a name I borrowed. He has been forgiven by his 
father long ago, and his mother and sisters are prouder than 
ever over him. I wonder — he will if he reads this — if ever he 
Jcnew that his brother paid his debt for their mothers sake. 







264 






SYMON HEINE'S AWAKENING. 



Symon Meine was born in one of his father's rickety, sun- 
debarred tenements in the city of Glasgow. His father had 
been a hard-hearted, miserable old money-grubber. Gossips 
told freely that Symon's mother had been starved to death ; and 
the poor lad had been under the care of a score of nurses be- 
fore he was able to run about and take care of himself; so it is 
little wonder he grew up a wizened, greedy-eyed likeness of 
his father. When the old man died — young Symon was over 
thirty then — he found out he had fallen heir to wealth he had 
little dreamed of — a long row of tenements — in a very poor 
neighborhood, and a snug round sum of money in the bank. 

Symon had once visited a friend of his father's — and they 
were few — in the country, leaving a desire in the young man's 
mind to become some day a country laird ; so we find him, a 
few years after his father's call to the "beyond," laird of Hazel- 
wood — a fine wooded and farmed estate on the Border. He 
brought with him a beautiful wife — a lady bought with his sil- 
ler — and their first child — a wee lassie of nearly two years. Sy- 
mon's upbringing had made him a believer — and a hard one — 
that siller was the only true power. His father's motto had 
been, "Never spend a farthing until ye can feel a penny ;" Sy- 
mon's was, "If money can get my heart's desire, the money is 
mine to spend." And it needed to be his heart's desire before 
he would spend a penny. He loved fat cattle, fine horses, etc., 

265 



but he hated to pay prices — for either cattle or man — especially 
man. The father had ruled the poor, half-starved people that 
were his tenants. The son imagined his riches ought to give 
him the same privileges amongst the simple villagers; but 
there is a difference between a half-starved Irish coal-heaver 
and a well-fed country ploughman — quite a difference, as Sy- 
mon found out. 

Symon's nearby neighbor was plain Rab Oliver. He owned 
a small piece of land, about 30 acres, but very fertile. Rab cul- 
tivated the most of it as a market garden, only a small piece 
for a pasture for a cow and a calf. Year after year, after Sy- 
mon became Laird of Hazelwood, he tried to gain possession 
of "Oliver's Neuk," as it was called, but money could not buy 
it. Rab was contented with his wife and bairns to live where 
he was. He owed no one; he made a fair living — able to put 
past something for a rainy day ; and as he would laughingly 
say to Symon : "As long as I dinna sell I'm yer equal, ye ken ; 
you're Laird o' Hazelwood, and I'm Laird o' Oliver's Neuk." 

There was a burn — there is, I should say — that runs spark- 
ling and gurgling over Symon's hill land, giving drink and 
pleasure to his many scores of sheep, but when it reached the 
hill-foot, instead of running straight on its course through 
Hazelwood's well-stocked pasture-land, as Symon thought it 
ought to have done, like all contrary streams it turned, hiding 
among a row of hazels, then burst through into Rab Oliver's 
pasture — a delight to Rab's bairns that guddled and dooked 
in its cooling bed, and a refreshing drinking run for auld Gow- 
an, Rab's cow; but a grievous mistake of Nature, to Symon's 
way of thinking. The siller-proud laird would alter its course. 

266 



What cared he about the laws of Nature? He would force it 
to run through his land. So he employed all the diggers and 
drainers he could find, and set them digging a new course for 
the contrary burn, starting it well up the hill, giving it a fine, 
deep bed through his own pasture, while his canny neighbor 
looked on with a mischievous twinkle in his grey een that told 
he was biding his time; for Rab was versed in law. Symon 
paid out his money to the labourers with a grudge, but 
it was for his heart's desire, and the burn was dammed 
and its course changed — long enough for Rab to go to law. 
Then Symon found out — after he had paid enormous sums of 
money to his lawyers, as well as the wages of the diggers — 
that he could not turn a river or burn's natural run, even al- 
though he was Laird o' Hazelwood, and owned a few bug- 
eaten walls in Glasgow. But even while the lawyers waxed 
eloquent. Nature herself took command, drenching the earth 
and flooding the rivers — for it was the Spring time — sweeping 
away the clay-dam, and urging the burn back to its old run. 
feeling unfettered, it burst, spewing and ploughing its way 
back through the hazels, dashed gushing through the hedge 
into its old stony bed in Oliver's pasture, to the roaring, danc- 
ing delight of Rab's callants — even the cow and her thick- 
legged calf louped and capered and bellowed with joy at the 
return of the waters, clay-coloured and frothy though it re- 
turned. All welcomed it among the Olivers, as a wanderer to 
its old haunts, contented to flow through the humble pasture 
of the Olivers (proof that it was only a burn) — all to the satis- 
faction of Rab Oliver, and to the disgust of Symon Meine. Be- 
sides, Symon had to fill in the forsaken runaway ; but not be- 

267 



fore a fine prize heifer fell into it and broke her leg. And 
Symon grew prouder and harder amongst his neighbors than 
ever. 

A kirk-path, that had been allowed for over 40 years by 
the former Laird o' Hazelwood, ran through part of Symon's 
choice land. He had it ploughed and sowed; but it was trod- 
den smooth again. Then he put up trespass signs; but they 
were ignored. So, a short time after his trouble — the burn 
trouble — with Rab Oliver, he one summer Sabbath's morn 
flung his gun over his shoulder and strode down to the gap 
that he had fenced up so often, just to be torn down again, and 
awaited the coming of the first on his way to the kirk. It hap- 
pened to be Tarn Tait, mole-catcher, hedger, and member of 
the Free Kirk. Now, Tam prided himself on being first man 
at the kirk (barrin' the gravedigger, who had also been sexton 
for over a dozen years), and he had always used the kirk-path 
that was a saving of a good three miles' walk to him. • Tam 
was known as a dour man, "an gey ill to han'le." As he neared 
the gap he spied the laird with his gun resting over a fence rail 
that was thrust in as a temporary rest and guard in the gap. 

"It's a graund Sabbath morn," says Tam, looking at the 
gun as if to reproach its owner for its un-Sabbathlike exhibi- 
tion. 

"Yes, my man, it's a fine morning, and you'll find it pleas- 
ant walking round the turnpike, pleasanter than you'll find it 
if you try to get through this way." And the Laird o' Hazel- 
wood toyed with the trigger as he measured Tam with his een, 
who had drawn a step nearer. 

"Ye dinna mean to hinder me frae gaun to the kirk?" And 
Tam gave a stone a vicious kick with his tacketty boot. 

268 



"Yes," quoth Symon Meine; "I am determined, if you are 
going to the kirk through my fields, I'll stop you, if I have got 
to use my gun and shoot you as I would a foumart." 

"Hoots, mon; dinna get angry. It's public property; the 
last laird gave it to the people as a kirk-path, and it's been in 
use for over 40 years." 

"Use or no use, the land's mine," interrupted Symon ; "and 
I give you fair warning; make an attempt to get through here 
and your blood will be on your own head." 

"Dinna anger me, man ; dinna anger me. I've no' been late 
for the kirk for ower twelve years, an' I've made nae allooance 
to gang roon the road this morning. Stand back, man, an' 
dinna hinder me, or I'll hae the sin on my conscience o' break- 
in' your back as well's the Sabbath Day." Tarn made a dash at 
the laird. The rail gave way like spunkwood, and laird and 
Tam, with Tam master of the footway, fell struggling to the 
ground. With a rive and a twist, Tam gained possession of the 
gun; and his feet first; Symon threatening all kinds of ven- 
geance that the law would help him in, as he rolled to a safe 
distance. 

"Noo," says Tam, "I'll jist blaw the deevil oot o' the bar- 
rels for safety," and Tam took aim at a big spruce tree, pep- 
pering it with lead. "Noo, Maister Meine, here's yer gun. Na, 
na, jist take it, for I dinna want ye to blame me o' robbing ye. 
And ye had jist better march on aheid o' me, for I see some o' 
the kirk folk comin' owre the hill, an' ye micht gliff some o' the 
weemin folk. It'll dae ye guid to gang to the kirk the day, aif- 
ter siccan murderous thochts. Noo dinna say a wird, but jist 
step oot." And Tam kept urging and talking, while Symon 

269 



stormed and threatened, but feared the stalwart form benind 
him. 

Now, Symon Meine had never been a believer in churches, 
and never intended to enter one unless he was carried. His wife 
occasionally went to the Free Kirk with her little girl, Ellen, 
who was at this time nearly eight years old. One other had 
come, but stayed only a few months. The ministers had both 
called several times, but Symon had ever an excuse — to the 
fields or hills — when he saw them coming up the braes. As they 
drew near the turnpike Tam advised — I should say commanded 
the laird to hide his gun behind the hedge, "as it wadna look 
weel carrying a gun into the kirk. Noo," says Tam, as they 
neared the kirk, where a few had gathereed, "naebody needs to 
be a bit the wiser o' this morning's wark. I can see auld Yid- 
die sortin' his glesses to tak a look at ye. Wheesht, man ; I 
ken the family pew o' Hazelwood, and it's best that ye should 
come alang, for I dinna want to gie ony explanation o' yer con- 
duct, and I'm no' very guid at tellin' a lee, especially on the 
Lord's Day. Yes, it's a fine mornin', Maister Trumbull ; I'm 
gaun to show the laird his seat." And Symon Meine, for the 
first time in his life, entered a kirk, and was guided by Tam 
down the aisle to the pew of the Hazelwoods right beneath the 
pulpit, where the laird sat down bewildered, but seemingly in 
better humour, Tam going back to his own seat. 

The seats were nearly all filled when a light foot tripped 
familiarly down the aisle and entered the Hazelwood pew, with 
an "Oh ! father, I'm so glad you have come to church." It was 
the laird's little daughter, Ellen, who sat down beside him, 
holding his hand in hers during the sermon, a sermon that 

270 



must have touched him, for he drank in every word, God's 
loving message told in simple language by an earnest, simple 
servant of the Master, one who believed in warning man of the 
gathering of sins rather than building a wall of theories for 
man to dump his sins behind. At the singing of the psalms 
vSymon would watch intently his little girl, who joined in the 
singing — watched her with a new light in his hard, steely eyes. 
After service he hurried away, only stopping long enough to 
tell Tam Tait, who waited at the kirk gate, "To keep a still 
tongue, and come up to Hazelwood to-morrow night." 

The villagers watched him and his little daughter going 
hand in hand down the roadway; but none ever knew the real 
reason, although they speired at Tam cannily and jokingly 
what brought the laird to the kirk. 

"Depend upon it," said Wat Rippath, "the man has got a 
warning." 

"I heard twae shots this mornin' as I cam' owre the hill," 
says Jock Fenwick to Tam Tait as they tramped homewards. 

"Sunilaw's callant gliffin' craws' yibbles," answered Tam, 
and said to himself afterwards, "That was nae lee, for Suni- 
law's callant did fire twae shots this mornin', tho' it wis gey 
early, an' then I said 'yibbles.' " 

5(5 sit * * * * 

That same Sunday night as Rab Oliver was returning from 
the byre he saw an unusual light up by Hazelwood. For a 
second he thought it was an illumination in the heavens, but 
only for a second, for, hurrying to the house, he startled them 
all with : "Hazelwud Ha's afire ! Hazelwud Ha's afire ! Hurry 
up, callants, put on yer buits ; there'll be lots o' help needed." 

271 



Rab rushed in the direction of the Ha' closely followed by his 
two eldest sons. Sure enough, they found the Ha' afire ; serv- 
ants and ploughmen hurrying through the smoke, trying to 
save what they could ; while Symon and his wife and bairn 
stood watching what they expected to see — their fine home^ 
but lately rebuilt, burnt to the ground. 

"It's only the auld pairt yet that's burning?" questioned 
Rab, as he drew near to Symon. 

"Only; but what can save the new, for the wind's rising?" 

"We'll tried, ony wye," quoth Rab. "Here, callants and 
weemin an' a', get a baud o' pails an' buckets an' every vessel 
ye can lay hands on, an' make a hand-to-hand chain o' yersels 
frae the pond to the hoose ; there's enough o' ye" — for they 
were gathering from the village and neighboring farms in pant- 
ing groups. "You, Cranstone, tak' yer brither wi' ye an' keep 
fillin' at the pond. Maister Meine, you keep them workin' ; 
yer wife and bairn had better rin doon to the Neuk; they'll 
jist be in the road here. I'll gang to the roof wi' my twae cal- 
lants. We'll keep the fire frae spreading; only keep the water 
oor wye." 

"And what will I do, Mr. Oliver?" asked the minister, who 
had just come forward. 

"Get baud o' an axe an' follow me. And you, Rippath, get 
baud o' an axe." 

Placing a ladder up against the new part, they were able 
to climb to the roof, for it was only two storeys high. Rab 
started to separate slate and boards — with powerful blows 
from his axe — that joined the old and new roof together. The 
minister and Rippath were nothing behind him in their ener- 

272 



gies, the callants meanwhile fixed the ladder preparatory to 
the handing up of the water that was coming rapidly along the 
line. Soon Rab and his companions, tho' nearly blinded with 
smoke, had the roofs cleared to the stone at their intersection. 
Every pitcher and pail in the neighborhood must have been 
there, seeing the way the water was passed from hand to hand 
that night. Every man, woman and lad wrought like clock- 
work, while the minister, Rab and Rippath loomed up through 
the smoke and flame, as they kept the fire back in the old part, 
like mighty giants. The wind had died down, and soon they 
had the fire conquered, but not before nearly every drop of 
water in the pond was used. 

It must have been a grand sight to any onlooker; pails 
and pitchers flying from hand to hand in an endless chain, the 
bairns and halflin's handing the empties back while the strong- 
er men and women cheerily passed the full ones that were emp- 
tied with such telling effect by the giants (for the minister was 
nae halflin') on the roof, into the conquered, sputtering mass 
of reeking ruins — all that was left of old Hazelwood Ha'. 

Symon himself had not been idle. Finding he was of little 
use otherwise than passing the water, he stood at the foot of 
the ladder and passed it up the ladder, which was well bur- 
dened with willing callants who passed the pails to the roof. 

"Ye maun excuse me," said Rab Oliver, turning to the 
minister, after reaching the ground again, "forcin' ye into 
siccan a perilous position, but I ken yer a graund hand at 
fechtin' fires." And Rab chuckled to himself. 

"I'm in no more perilous position than yourself, but I'm 
pleased over it, for I've proved to both you and Rippath that 
I'm as good a man physically as yourselves." 

273 



"Aye, and a better man spiritually," interrupted Rippath. 

"I'm no sa sure about that," answered the minister, turn- 
ing to the laird, who stood ready to thank them as well as he 
could in words. 

"I'm a new man from to-night, neighbors. I've been a 
selfish, hard-hearted rascal — been going about with my eyes 
shut through life, seeing the power of nothing unless harnessed 
with wealth. To-day, minister, you showed me a mightier 
power than all my gold and land. I have been awakened to a 
brighter future ; I have seen a purity and love in my little 
daughter that I shall never blight ; and to-night I have been 
shown the love of my neighbors in saving my belongings, when 
they ought to have been pleased to see everything burn." 

"Come away down to the Neuk," interrupted Oliver. 
"Naebody has done ony mair than they ought to hae done — 
gled to get the opportunity. We'll straighten things up in the 
morning. Here, Jock; harness up the pownie, an' drive the 
minister owre to the manse as quick as ye can, before he catch- 
es cauld." 

}^ ^ ^ 1^ i^ ^ 

Tam Tait showed himself bright and early the next night 
at Hazelwood. The new part was the principal dwelling-house 
— the old part, in ruins, having been the kitchen, laundry and 
sleeping rooms of the servants. Tam had been at the fire and 
had done his share of work the night before. He had even 
brought the gun from its hiding-place and placed it in the 
greenhouse, where the laird got it in the morning. 

"Well, Mr. Tait, I saw you last night, but we were too 
busy; does mole catching pay you?" 

274 



"No, sir ; not since you took the Hazelwood trappings 
frae me." 

"Well, Tait, I have an offer to make you. You know the 
lodge stands empty. Well, if you like to go into it with your 
family, I can keep such a man as you very busy; and besides 
I would rather have you for a servant than a master." 

"You dinna mean to get even wi' me for Sunday's wark?" 

"Yes," says the Laird, "but not the way you mean ; I'll 
give you good wages if you'll come." 

"Well, it's a bargain," quoth Tarn; "an' I'll start the 
morn." 

"And the first job I'll have you do, is to get some labourers 
and make the kirk-path wide enough for a cart; I noticed on 
Sunday it was awkward walking, one behind another." 

The widening of the kirk-path was but the beginning of 
many improvements that endeared Symon Meine in the hearts 
of the villagers and tenants, for Symon's awakening carried 
improvements to his poor tenements in Glasgow. 




ADAM'S RETURN. 



The Master of Hundalee proved himself the benefactor of 
the Nairnes after the taking away of their bread-winner, who 
had been the Auld Kirk minister; and it was little if anything 
he left behind him o' the warld's gear to his widow and bairns 
— two small lads. The minister was an old man when he mar- 
ried — a gatherer of books rather than siller — and his stipend 
was small — enough to live comfortably without the "rainy 
day" needs. Sir Humphrey had been his friend, and made his 
passing away easy by promising to look after the widow and 
bairns. As the boys grew to manhood Adam, the eldest, who 
had ever been the favorite of Sir Humphrey, became his factor, 
thereby receiving a salary that enabled him to send his brother 
to college — the greatest wish of the mother and the desire of 
the lad himself, who ever yearned to follow in his father's 
footsteps. 

They were both tall, finely-formed young men, but the 
younger — Gilbert — was the greatest favorite with every one. 
Adam was dour and cared little for company, while Gilbert 
was the opposite. The first year in Edinburgh Gilbert was 
very regular with his letters home, and his visits were often. 
But the second year the mother returned oftener with a heavy 
heart than a letter from the village postoffice ; while the letters 
Adam received did not make him better liked, for after re- 
ceiving them he would be moodier than ever. And that sum- 
mer Adam and Gilbert had their first, quarrel, and the follow- 

276 



ing winter came the attempted robbery and nearly murder of 
Sir Humphrey. Adam had collected the rents of the Hundalee 
estate, and turned over the money to Sir Humphrey, who was 
alone all but the servants — his wife and daughters being in 
Edinburgh, and his son in London. He intended taking the 
money to the bank next morning. In the meantime, as Adam 
looked on, he locked it in his desk that stood in the library. 

The Master of Hundalee was a great reader and sat up in 
a little room, or den, off the library often very late; and this 
evening he had fallen asleep in his chair, when he was awak- 
ened by a sound in the library. The lamp had flickered out, 
but it was a clear moonlight night — or morning rather — and 
as he cautiously opened the library door he could see a figure 
bending over his desk that stood wide open. With a cry for 
help he made a grab at the figure, who turned upon him, felling 
him to the floor with some heavy instrument. The cry awak- 
ened the servants, who came rushing half-dressed, headed by 
the butler to the library, where they found their master, as 
they thought at first, dead on the floor with the window wide 
open. They carried him to his bedroom, where they found he 
was alive, but bleeding terribly from a wound on the head. 
Some one had run for the doctor, who lived nearby, and soon 
he was able to explain how he had received the blow. "Who- 
ever he was," he said, "must have known of me receiving the 
rents to-day. Go, John," to the butler, "and see if the money 
is gone." 

"There is no money in your desk, sir," said the butler 
when he rturned. 



277 



"Then take the gardener with you and go to Nairnes', and 
tell him what has happened. And you, John, ride to Kale- 
wood and bring the sheriff." 

As they drew near the Nairnes' cottage that was about half 
a mile west of the "Big House" they could see that it was still 
lit up. They rapped, and Adam himself said "Come in." Enter- 
ing they found Adam sitting at the table, dressed and covered 
with mud — as the butler described it — "like he had been 
dragged through a glaur hole" — while on the table before him 
lay a pile of money. 

"Maister's been robbed and almost murdered," blurted the 
butler in way of explanation of their visit at that hour in the 
morning; "and he wants to see you." 

"I know he has been robbed," groaned Adam ; "but I have 
the money here, every penny of it I think, but the robber 
escaped from me. But come along;" and blowing out the light, 
after gathering up the money, he hastened along with them to 
the "Big House." 

Adam told a very lame story concerning how the money 
came into his possession ; — How he had felt restless that night, 
and taking a walk around by the plaintain he saw a man sneak 
from the trees in front of the "Big House;" thinking the fellow 
had been after no good he gave chase, and caught up to him 
just as he was crossing the brig. "He made as though he would 
strike me with a heavy stick he carried in one hand," explained 
Adam, "but I closed with him, and in the struggle he dropped 
something he had concealed under his coat. I tried to trip him, 
but he slid from my grip and escaped. I lifted what he had 
dropped, and found it was the bag containing the rent money 
I had given you." 

278 



"Why did you not bring it to the 'Big House.' " 
"I wanted to see whether it was all correct." 
"You can tell your version to the Sheriff when he comes;" 
and Sir Humphrey, with brow striped with court plaster flung 
himself back amongst the pillows, seemingly little satisfied 
with Adam's story. 

Well the outcome of the Sheriff's investigation was that 
poor Adam was arrested and tried at the burgh town and 
found guilty; for he never tried to clear himself by telling who 
the man was that he chased, though he said as much as that 
he knew the man. Even Sir Humphrey, after his memory was 
helped a little, was positive that Adam had been his assailant, 
and thought he had done generous towards Adam when he had 
the sentence lightened to fourteen years hard labor. 

Poor Adam never lifted his head to say a word in his own 
defense. He only tried to encourage his mother, who never 
doubted his innocence, and implored his brother, who sat cow- 
ering by his mother's side during the trial, "to study hard and 
shun the gambling dens, for he would have to be his mother's 
breadwinner now." Some thought when they heard those 
words that the dour, sulky callant had been a gambler as well 
as a robber. His sweetheart, Ellen Leithwaite, never came 
near the Court-room, but sought and gained admittance to the 
jail afterwards to bid him farewell ere he was taken to the 
Colonies and to brighten his forced exile by words that he 
crooned over for many weary long years. "Oh ! Adam," she 
said, as she hung around his neck, "tho' ye winna clear yersel' 
by tellin' whae the guilty one is, I ken in my heart that you 
are innocent, an' I'll pray day an' nicht for the guilty one to 

279 



be found oot, so that you'll get your guid name back again ; an' 
when you come back the lass whae's heart ye noo hae will be 
the one to welcome you — unless death comes atween us !" 

Fourteen years had changed but very little the straggling 
Border village that nestled amang broomy braes at the foot of 
the Cheviots, excepting for a line of the N. B. R. that boasted 
(for the village, even to the kirk, was of rough whinstone 
thatched with straw) a station of hewn red stone, with a roof 
of glistening green slate, about a mile from the mill, the hind- 
maist building in the raw, and ten miles from anywhere else. 
The passenger train stopped twice a day, morning and even- 
ing, I suppose to impress upon the mind of the few onlookers 
the importance of the calling of the dignified guard, who 
strutted along the platform opening and slamming doors and 
answering shortly some questions of the stationmaster and 
calling "All aboard;" for rarely, except in the shooting season, 
did a passenger alight. But this October morning a traveler, 
and seemingly a stranger to the few that gathered as the train 
slowed up, stepped from a third-class coach, and, after looking 
around him, seemed to catch a glimpse something villageward 
that led him to step in that direction. He appeared to be a 
man of forty, or he might be younger, brown-skinned and 
brown-bearded, with a sprinkling of gray — a man you could 
tell by his labored walk and stooping forwards that had toiled, 
and toiled hard, and if clothes were any showing had gained 
little by it. 

"Fourteen years," he was murmuring to himself; "I wonder 
if anyone will remember me. Good Lord, to think how I have 
suffered, while a word could have saved me. Yes, and killed 

280 



mother. Mother must be alive yet or Gilbert surely would 
have cleared me. And Ellen — does she still await me? Maybe 
she mourns me as dead, or wearied of the waiting and — . But 
yonder's the stonebreaker; I believe it's still auld Sandy." 

The stonebreaker stood leaning on his hammer, resting 
himself by watching the figure that labored towards him. No 
one had entered the village or left it by the cross-roads un- 
known to or unquestioned by Sandy the past forty years, un- 
less they did so on the Sabbath or New Year's Day. 

"It a graund mornin," said Sandy, as the stranger came to 
a halt at the stone heap, 

*'Yes, a fine morning;" and the stranger as he spake sat 
down on the heap, it's square shallowness permitting him to 
use it as a seat, thereby inviting Sandy to what he yearned for 
the chance o' a crack. 

"Yer a stranger roond thir pairts?" queried Sandy, as he 
handed a match over to the man to light the pipe he had drawn 
from his pocket, his own auld cutty ever being a part of his 
breathings, unless when asleep or in the kirk. 

"A stranger? Yes, I'm a stranger. I suppose many a trav- 
eler comes this way?" 

"Na, man; there's very few comes this gait since the rail- 
way has come sae near. Whiles a packman-body, or a body on 
the tramp." 

■'Like myself!" interrupted the stranger. 

"But ye maun hae some errand for ye gat aff the train, an' 
ye dinna look like ye were gaun tae the 'Big House?' " And 
Sandy eyed the stranger's garb. 

281 



"I'm going over the hills. I've been this way before, some 
years ago. I used to know a family — I think the name was 
Leithwaite." 

"Wis it Wat Leithwaite o' 'Ringin's Keep?'" 

"Yes; that is the man;" and the stranger looked as if he 
wished to hear more. 

"Auld Wat has been deid four years come Mairtinmas. 
Young Wat has the fairm. The lassie was weel married, or 
maybe ye kent. But what ails ye man?" 

"Nothing, nothing; I swallowed a mouthful of smoke; but 
— but who did the daughter marry?" 

"'Gilbert Nairne, oor minister." 

"Gilbert Nairne!" exclaimed the stranger. 

"Ay; jist Gilbert Nairne. Div ye ken him?" 

"I heard something about a robbry some one of that name 
was mixed in when I was here before." And the stranger 
kicked viciously with his boot-heel at a bettle that crawled 
on the stones at his feet. 

"That wis Adam, Gilbert's brither. Puir fallow, he robbed 
an' nearly killed the auld Sir Humphrey; an' then we heard he 
tried to escape frae the convict station where he had been ban- 
ished to. They say he wis a bad yin. I weel believe it, for he 
wis an' awfu' dour callant. But the guard shot him doon. The 
mither, puir body, never gat owre her auldest bairn's disgrace, 
and we laid her aside her husband lang afore the news o' the 
callan't sad ending came to the village — that's some six or 
seeven years ago. Ellen Leithwaite wis Adam's sweetheart, 
an' kept true to him until she heard o' his death ; an' then she 
took up wi' Gilbert, whae thro' Sir Humphrey's influence had 

282 



gotten the kirk o' his faither. An' I tell ye ye'll gang a lang 
road or ye hear as graund a preacher. They've tried to get him 
to the big kirks in Edinboro', but 'Na, na,' he'd ever say, 'my 
mission is amang the hill-folk o' the Border.' " 

"Do you think Adam was guilty?" 

"Guilty? It was proven beyond a doot. Even his ain 
brither wis convinced o' his guilt, altho' his mither wad never 
believe it; but that's natural, ye ken. An' puir Ellen Leith- 
wate dwined away to a perfect shadow; but the roses stole 
back to her cheeks after she became the minister's lady; an' 
they hae twa bonnie bairns — laddies. Yin o' them they ca' 
Gilbert, the ither Adam. I think it wis foolish ca'in' the bairn 
after the rogue o' an uncle ; but folks does queer things." 

"Who brought the news of Adam's death?" 

"His ain brither — but what ails ye, man?" For the stranger 
had dashed his pipe from him, smashing it to dust on the 
stones beside him, as he scrambled from the heap, and, with- 
out even a look at Sandy, who glowered open-mouthed at 
him, he wheeled — seemingly a new man, strengthened with 
Sandy's story — ^to a speed that was almost a run in the direc- 
tion of the manse road. 

The manse road lies on the south of the cross roads, and 
away from the village. It derives its name from the Auld Kirk 
manse — the principal biggin.' The road twists and stretches 
for miles thro' the hills, while the manse lies sheltered in a 
clump of trees but a short distance from the village. The 
hedge that borders the roadway hung heavy with autumn 
berries, while the turning foliage quivered with its twittering 
dwellers; but Adam Nairne, for 'twas he, altho' the stone- 

283 



breaker failed to recognize him, heeded not the beauties of the 
hedgeways or the songs of the feathered warblers, but hurried 
— goaded by a fire that drives man to murder. 

The servant lass was washing clothes on the green beside 
the manse, but fled from her washing like a frightened doe at 
Adam's approach — fled towards the stable, from where the 
minister's man issued, fork in hand, and as Adam strode to- 
wards the front-door he came around trailing the fork behind 
him. 

"There's naebody at hame ; the minister's gaen +0 the 'Big 
Hoose,' an' the leddy's gaen a walk wi' the bairns ; but come 
roon tae the kitchen, for the minister wadnae like ony gaun- 
aboot-body tae gang frae the manse hungry. Come roond an' 
get a sup o' milk an' a bit bannock." 

"I'm not begging, my man; and if your master is at the 
'Big House' I'll find him." And Adam turned towards a foot- 
way that ran from the manse, thro' plantain and meadowland 
to the "Big House." It was a footway that Adam knew well — 
a path strewn with pleasant memories of childhood — and as 
he stumbled along, crushed in body and soul, crushed with 
years of hard, brutal labor; for his dour, proud spirit made him 
a dangerous convict, and a victim of lash and iron. But all 
that was nothing to what he now suffered. The faint glim- 
mering streak of hope was darkened forever by the stone- 
breaker's story. His mother dead, and Ellen married to his 
brother — that brother for whom he had suffered so much. He 
moaned aloud in his agony. 

As he neared the edge of the plantain a ripple of childish 
laughter floated towards him from the meadows below, a rip- 



pie that awakened old memories, when he and Gilbert paidled 
in childish glee in the burn that ran thro' the meadowland to 
the Teviot beyond, and his eye grew softer, and something like 
a tear glided down his leather-brown cheek. When he came 
to the open he could see ahead of him, across the burn a 
woman with two children sporting in front of her, and coming 
towards them a man. Adam stopped ; for in the tall, straight 
figure in the garb of a minister he recognized Gilbert, his 
brother. Leaning against an oak, whose turning leaves quiv- 
erea and fell at his feet, he watched the little ones run toward 
him, saw him fold them both to his bosom, then lift the small- 
est — a child of three — to his shoulder, leading the other by the 
hand until he met the woman, whom he kissed affectionately; 
and ns she turned by Gilbert's side Adam knew it was Ellen — 
her face radiant with the glory of a wife and mother. Adam 
turned and fled as a guilty being, the mufder in his heart 
quenched forever, turned into the darkness of the plantain. 

At the gloaming some of the villagers (auld Sandy one of 
them) saw the Master of Hundalee — the younger Sir Humph- 
rey — going toward the "Big House" arm-in-arm with the 
stranger that alighted from the morning train. The minister — 
Gilbert Nairne — was sent for that night to come to the "Big 
House," and when he was leaving, after a stay of nearly two 
hours, the butler heard him say — "God bless you, Adam; my 
prayers and Ellen's will be ever with you whereever you be." 

But Adam is a common name in the South countrie, and 
no cne recognized in the bearded smiling manager of Sir 
Humphrey's Australian mines, that he drove to the station 
next day, and whom the Master of Hundalee shook so warmly 
by the hand as he bade him "Godspeed," Adam Nairne, the 
ex-convict, for all believed him dead, and ever will. Yes, and 
it is better so. 

285 



THE WISHING WELL. 



As the shadows of the "Auld Elm" drew nearer the dyke- 
side and the sun-crowned west tinted with its passing glory, 
hill-land and braeside, with a mellow rosy gloom and the call 
of the cushie doo (wood dove) trembled, then died away in the 
darkness of the forest, and from the "Pasture" came the gentle 
low of the kye, mingling with the "ho lady, ho lady" of the 
milkmaid, as she waited by the yett with bared arms and kilted 
'coatie (petticoat) — with creepie and pail — the coming of 
brown-eyed Spottie or gentle Bonnie. 

Nannie and Mary Graham slowly meandered up the village 
laneway that hung arched with the spreading glory of birk and 
mountainash, with a sprinkling of green, or wild cherry, that 
seldom darkened to the hue of ripeness, for their fancied 
sweetness watered to recklessness the mouth of the country 
school-boy, and I suppose the fun of climbing and hanging 
from the branches — I know it is — trying to be the one to get 
the cluster — ever the ripest — that overhangs the scaur that 
slopes in dangerous ragged jutts of redstone to the river that 
gurgles and bubbles beneath, is a temptation that no boy, 
healthy and vigorous, can withstand. 

And so Nannie and Mary meandered and spelled betimes 
up the laneway and by the footway that jouks in wayward 
curvings thro' beds of sweet brier and patches o' golden broom 
to the auld well, or Wishing Well, as it ever was called. 

As they neared the well — that loomed with its stony moss- 

286 



grown top, like a huge emerald set in scatterings of purple and 
gold that adorned the braeside, where still lingered longingly, 
like a lover at the door of his Jean, the shadowed splendor of 
the kingly west — they could see two other lassies turn up the 
hillway. 

"Yons the 'herd's lassies," said Nannie, "They maun hae 
been keekin in the well." 

"Thir fairney tickled (freckled) faces wad gliff the shadow 
o' a Druid," laughed Mary. 

"Toots, theyre wyse enough lookin' an' they're guid, that's 
better than bein' bonnie, but let's hurry or we needna keek ony 
mair this day," and Nannie pulled her sister towards the well. 

"Keek, Nannie, keek first, an' take a guid lang keek, an' tell 
me what ye see." 

"I see a lad, my, my, he looks just like oor young laird, siller 
buckles on his shoon, a sword at his side, looks like it had a 
siller hilt, embossed wi' claith o' gowd, an' feggs ! he's gettin' 
doon on his knees to a lass, that looks awfu' like mysell." 

"That's just fancy," interrupted Mary. "Let's hae a keek," 
and Mary looked down into the silent water of the auld well 
while the lichtsome Nannie drew back. "An' what sees my 
sentimental sister Mary?" 

■'I see naething yet ; bide awee, noo, noo. I see twa faces 
yin is my ain, an', an' the ither, na, na, it's no sae, it canna be." 

"Whaes is the ither face," speired Nannie, as Mary drew 
back from the well, hiding her face as from a horrid vision. 

"I daurna tell ye, for I ken it's no true. An' it wadnae be 
right if it was true." 

287 



"Oh, but !" pleaded Nannie. "Ye ken it's just fancy, come 
Mary, lass, tell me whaes was the ither face, ye ken I aye tell't 
you a' my secrets." 

But all Nannie's pleadings and arguments could not wile 
from Mary "whaes was the ither face." An' tho' Nannie 
keeked an' keeked in the well and dropped with lingering hand 
pieces of moss and pebble, neither ripple nor shadow would 
tell her of the future, while Mary stood back saddened with 
fancy's future glimpse. 

So they turned homewards, the sun having cowered down 
out of sight behind the silvery gray clouds of the gloaming. 

Turned homewards thro' the glade, that's springy, verdant 
bottom gave forth a "seep, see-ip, seep," in echo to their foot- 
falls, that only made Mary more dowie, and not even Nannie's 
cheerie lilt, or the meeting of Wat Howie, who was supposed 
to be a wooer of Mary's, could lift from her mind the heaviness 
that had gathered at the well. 

Nannie had broken a sixpence with Aleck Maitland at the 
trysting tree in the early spring. Aleck was an engineer in 
Portobello, an old schoolmate of the Graham lassies, and those 
that pretended to know — and that was nearly all the village — 
said when Aleck came home to pay the auld folk a visit the 
coming Autumn, he would come on a double errand, and 
"Postie," who was aye mysterious, was seen to wink and shake 
his head in a knowing way at Nannie, as he would slip her a 
letter — as much as to say, "I ken the handwritin', lassie ; ye 
needna blush," and then he would chuckle to himself and mut- 
ter aloud, "Dod ! man, Postie, ye've been in love yersel' an' a 
bonnie fuil ye made o't." The Postie's wife was a woman o' 

288 



great ambitions — too great for Postie's income that came in 
monthly installments. "But it came from the Government, 
frae the Queen's ain Bank," she proudly told the joiner's wife, 
as she borrowed a "neivefu' o' sugar to put owre the Sabbath. 

The next morning Mary seemed to have gotten over her 
dowiness, but ere the gloaming the heaviness o' heart had 
returned. But Nannie, if she noticed it, "speired nae mair 
questions." But ere the summer had lengthened it was noticed 
by more than one. And the herd's lassies had seen her keekin' 
in the Wishing Well, night after night, and the roses that had 
bloomed sae bonnie on her cheeks were fading, and the 
mother's een had noticed the dwining o' her lassie, and had 
mentioned to the father, "That the bairn" — for Mary was the 
youngest — "needed a change o' air." 

"Better send her to Auntie's in Portobello, the caller air 
will dae her mair guid than a' the doctors," said the father. 

And a day or two after their conversation, a letter came 
from Portobello from the aunty. Wanting one o' the lassies 
she'd prefer Mary to come and bide wi' her awhile, as she was 
lanesome, having no lassies o' her ain, a' laddies, and so Mary 
v/as v/iled to the sea-side, scarcely saying "good-bye" to Wat 
Howie, who had been sadly slighted for some time 

Then something happened that astonished the villagers. 
Nannie was seen walking with Wat Howie ; no harm in that, 
surely; but hadn't she broken a sixpence with Aleck Maitland 
in the spring, and wasn't she receiving letters a' the time frae 
him, and "Mistress Postie" took it upon hersel' — she had a 
bi'oad back for clashes — to give the Maitlands a glint o' the 
ongauns, for hadnae she seen wi' her twae een Wat Howie kiss 
Nannie Graham at her father's yett. 

289 



"I'm just warnin' ye, Mrs. Maitland, that the lassie is 
makin' a fuil o' yer callant. An' if ye dinna write him yersel' 
and tell him o' the huzzie's ongauns, I'll take it upon mysel' to 
inform the callant, being the mither o' twae o' the nicest cal- 
lants in the shire'. Deary me, Mistress Maitland, did ye get 
yer provisions already. I'll just trouble ye for a maskin' o' tea 
'till Tuesday, then my man gets his salary — she had hunted 
long for that word — frae the Government oot o' the Queen's 
ain Bank ye ken ; thank ye mem," and Mistress Postie hurried 
away to spread her clashes elsewhere. 

But a letter was already on its way to Aleck that cost the 
sender bitter, bitter tears. A strange letter that Aleck received 
as he entered his room after his day's toil. A letter that held 
him crushed, crushed in spirit, unwashed, deaf to the call of 
supper, blind to the beauties of the Firth of Forth, whose sum- 
mer waves tumbled and rolled, then spread o'er the pebbled, 
yellow beach, then came within a stone's throw of his window, 
held him within his chair, and when the landlady rapped to 
find out what was keeping him frae his supper, he answered 
her with, "Dinna disturb me to-night. I dinna feel very well, 
and I'm no' hungry." 

But he suffered less, far less, than the sender — Nannie 
Graham — who had written. 

Mr. Maitland. 

I have no right to call you Aleck any more, for I am not 
worthy of you. I do not care for you, and I send you back the 
half o' the sixpence — my half — that you gave me at the tryst- 
ing tree in the spring; folk will tell you that they have seen 

290 



me walking with Wat Howie, and it's all true. So I think you 
had better seek a lass more worthy of you, 

NANNIE GRAHAM. 

P. S. — Mary is staying at our aunt's at Blinkbonny Cot- 
tage. N. G. 

Blind, blind Aleck, that saw the half sixpence, yet could 
not see the dark tear stains on the letter. 

The next day Aleck "layed off" and sought out Mary, who 
reddened like a rose at his appearance, and gave her Nannie's 
letter to read. 

"She maun just be fuilin' ye," stammered Mary, after read- 
ing the letter. "Nannie wad never be sae cruel ; she canna be, 
it's no' in her heart," 

"But see this ither letter I got frae my mither this morning, 
dae ye think after that, that I wad hae onything mair to dae wi' 
her, na na, I'm naebody's fuil; if she wants Wat Howie an' 
thinks him better than me I'll be nae dallying fuil an' stand in 
her way ; there's as guid fish i' the sea as ever was caught." 

"But 111 write to Nannie, dinna be severe wi' her, for I ken 
she is just tryin' you." 

"Write if you like. I'll never plead for her." And Aleck 
stalked off whistling a lichtsome air. But he came back that 
evening to take Mary a walk for auld schoolmate's sake. 

Mary wrote to Nannie and received a reply by the next 
mail. "It a' true I care naething for Aleck, just as little 
as you cared for Wat Howie." And Aleck came night after 
night to the "Cottage" for auld schoolmate's sake, and Mary's 
cheeks got back all their old time's richness, and her aunty 

291 



persuaded her to bide wi' her all that year, as the caller air had 
done her so much good; and Mary was easily persuaded, and 
Aleck was delighted, for there were so many bonnie walks 
around the sea-shore that Mary had never seen yet, and Nan- 
nie urged her in her letters to be sure and stay a while longer, 
when the sea air was doing her so much good and Nannie's 
letter had such a happy tone, for her "ongauns" had been but 
a nine days' wonder, Postie's wife having sought another tale 
for her tongue's waggin'. 

So Mary stayed all the winter, and when spring came again 
Aleck said to her, as they stood at the cottage gate, watching 
the sail yachts dipping and gliding, like gigantic birds on the 
glassy bosom of the firth, their silken sails agleam with the 
glory of the radiant West — "Mary, what need ye gang hame, 
the caller air has wiled back the bloom to your cheel s again, 
and lassie" — and he put his arm around her waist, drawing her 
nearer the sea — "there is a bonnie wee cottage that's rose-cov- 
ered front smiles to the sea. And there is one more rose I need 
to beautify the rooms that I hae already furnished. Mary, will 
you be that rose?" 

And the letter Mary got in return to the one she sent Nan- 
nie that night tells what her answer was to Aleck. 

"Dearest Sister Mary, I am very very happy to know that 
you and Aleck are coming home in June to be married. God 
bless you both. Can you arrange the same wedding day^ 
Wat Howie has waited for me, and I said 'yes' the night I 
got your letter, and dear Mary, wasn't Aleck's the ither face 
you saw in the Wishing Well?" 

292 



As the two sisters walked with encircling arms around 
each other's waists up the village brae, on the eve of their wed- 
ding, Mary was saying "Oh, Nannie, Nannie, but you are a 
noble, noble lass, and to think I hae been so blind." 

"Toots, Mary, lass, ye see we are baith happy or will be 
soon. I ken fine I wad never hae agreed wi' Aleck, we're sae 
di^erent. And Wat Howie is such a graund, noble, big-hearted 
fellow." 

But there was just a wee tremble on Nannie's lips that was 
drowned with the ripple of her lightsome laugh, as she darted 
from Mary's side to pull some wild roses that keeked tempting 
thro' the hedge. 

Postie's wife said with many a smirk as she came in to 
borrow Mistress Howie's wash-tub : 

"I was just telling Postie nae later than this morning. I 
never saw twae bonnier or happier looking couples grace a 
kirk; it was a sight to gladden a' oor hearts the Sabbath you 
and your sister was kirked, and you've baith gotten the wa'.e 
o' guidmen; thank you mem! I'll just tak' a wee drappie — 
just a drappie o' the wine and a bittie o' the cake to dream on, 
and I'll make an effort to visit your sister in the fa' of the year 
when Postie gets his vacation frae the Government. Guid day, 
and I'll send the laddie owre with the tub." 

And Nannie smiled a contented, happy smile, as she 
watched her husband turn his horses towards the watering 
trough, ere he fed them their noonday corn. 



293 



THE HERD'S ANNIE. 



The spring spate had carried away the last flake of winter, 
and the hill-side was green with tender, sweet grass and burst- 
ing bracken, that was alive with romping lambs and proud, 
well-filled ewes, when Wat the "herd," brought to the hill- 
head bonnie Annie, the herd o' Blackhough's only daughter — 
his ewe lamb — as Mrs. Oliver, a title she never got, nor never 
vvill — she had been the "Herd's Annie" to everyone before Wat 
Oliver wooed her from her father's and the name just came 
easier afterwards. 

My faith ! he must have been a proud man, the day he 
brought her to the hill-head, for many a lad, gentle an' simple, 
craved the hand o' the herd's Annie, but who had a better right 
to her than the lad o' her school days, and who could protect 
her better than stalwart Wat, a callant that could toss the 
caber or put the stane further than any lad north the Cheviots 
— for none ever dared face him on the southern border. 

It was a lonely place, the house on the hill-head. I say it 
was, for to-day it is a thriving village — lonely for town folk, but 
to Annie, it was a perfect palace, with its little flower garden 
in front, and the tinkling ziz-zag burnie that tumbled an' sput- 
tered over the hillside to the haughs beneath. It had been 
Wat's hame since he was a bairn — and the youngest o' ten — 
that, were at the time o' my story scattered far an' wide. The 

294 



father and mother died there — so it was hame that he brought 
Annie, welcomed by a couple o' mitherless lambs and Wat's 
twae tousy coated collies. 

The village joiner had added some new furniture to the ben 
room and Wat had bought some pictures for the wa's. In the 
kitchen were some pictures that every herd likes to see, a 
string o' braxies (mutton hams) round the four corners o' the 
room. Wat had forgotten nothing; the bin was fu', the crook 
and swing shone like mirrors, and the stone flour was chalked 
— sae it's nae wonder Annie turned as she entered and kissed 
Wat with the gladness of a happy bride, her een wet with the 
o'erflowing of a contented heart; and soon other joys came to 
gladden the hearts of Wat and Annie. 

It had been a hard winter, a winter that seemed sweir o' 
gaun away, for at the beginning o' March, the wind still 
howled, snow laden, from the boisterous north, and Wat had 
many a weary, laborious tramp o'er the hills amang his sheep, 
for it was nearing lambing time, and there wasn't a day that 
he hadn't two or three ewes to drive to the bields, that Wat 
and the hinds had built of straw, down in the lowlands for 
early ewes. 

Wee Wat was 5 years old and the bairn nearing two, good 
company for Annie, for many a day did she spend from rising 
time to bed-time, without seeing Wat, for he usually got his 
dinner at the "Big Hoose," a lang hour's tramp in good sum- 
mer weather, and when the lirks o' the hills and the ditches 
were level with snaw, a dangerous, tiring wade o' nearly two 
hours. But Annie was a shepard's daughter and she feared 
little, for her long limbed, sturdy Wat. 

295 



This particular day Wat was hame for dinner, and as he 
ate his braxie an' potatoes, wee Wat sitting at his elbow, 
the bairn, a lassie on its mother's knee, the twae collies, Auld 
Burr an Yarrow, lying on the rug before the fire, the conver- 
sation being the weather and his sheep. 

"I'll maybe be late the nicht, Annie, but I'll leave Auld 
Burr wi' you an' the bairns. I hae a couple o' yowes to drive 
frae Whitton's mairch down to the lambin sheds, at the back 
o' the hinds hooses. Tam Elliott is comin' owre the nicht to 
help me wi' the lambin' sae I'll no' need to gang sae aften to 
the hillfoot; the hinds are comin' up the morn to help me to 
get the hill buchts ready, sae after I get a' the yowes in shel- 
ter, I'll stay at the hill-head, an Tam' wi' the help o' the cal- 
lant, will look after the yowes doon below, 

'"But here, Yarrow, take yer denner, for we maun be gaun. 
Shee hooch ! but hoo that wind blaws — there's anither storm 
brewin.' I'll take a couple o' mauds (plaids) wi me ; I micht 
hae a mitherless lamb to carry hame." 

And Wat, pulling on his worsted leggins, knit by Annie, 
rowed his maud aroond him, kissed Annie and the bairns, 
gripped his lambin' crook, and wi' Yarrow at his heels, strode 
off — the snow that was being swept over the hill-head swirling 
and curling around his legs and completely hiding poor Yar- 
row, swept by the chilly breath of aggressive March. But 
Wat cared little for a puff o' angry wind, and his strong limbs 
soon cleaned a path thro' the drifts for poor Yarrow, that 
kept snug to his heels. 

But as I said before Annie had little fear for her long- 
limbed, big-hearted Wat, but after the darkening when the 

296 



bairns had gone to sleep, and she had ta'en doon her knitten', 
she turned fidgety, and couldn't settle herself, but would have 
to rise every minute from her chair to peer out into the dark- 
ness or listen for Wat's approach, that was always heralded 
by the yelp of a dog. Even auld Burr would prowl an' sniff 
around the door as if anxious for the return o' Yarrow. 

Eight and 9 o'clock struck but no Wat, and as she wearied 
she would talk to auld Burr, and the collie would look up 
in her face human like. "Burr, auld callant, I'm kind o' feared 
the nicht. I wish Wat had taken you wi' him instead o' that 
young 'rake-aboot,' an' sic a nicht. It's started snawin' again. 
Eh, lad, what's that," for Burr wi' stiffened lugs (ears) had 
sprang towards the door. "Yes, lad, that's Yarrow's bark. I 
ken it as weel's yersel'. I'm sae glad." As she opened the 
door Yarrow rushed in past Burr to his mistress, an' grip- 
ping her by the goon tried to drag her out. 

"What's wrang wi' ye. Yarrow? What's wrang, where's 
yer maister?" 

And then Yarrow would quit her, running barking to Burr. 
And then both dogs would yowl in chorus. 

"I ken thir's somethin' wrang," moaned Annie. "Some- 
thin' has happened to Wat. I believe the dumb brute wants 
me to gang wi' it. What is it Yarrow, is yer maister hurt?" 
And the dog would wag his tail, understanding Annie, who 
was slow to learn by the actions of the dumb brute what he 
meant. 

"See, lad, take yer supper and I'll pu' on my heavy shoon 
an' gang wi' ye." 

297 



As soon as Yarrow saw his mistress preparing to go with 
him he stopped yovAing and lay down by the door to await 
her, ignoring the bowie of porridge she had set on the floor 
beside him. 

II. 

Poor Annie ran about the room excited, speaking to auld 
Burr as if he were a human being — the dog seeming to under- 
stand everything she said. 

"Noo, Burr, ye'll stay wi' the bairns, an' I'll gang wi' Yar- 
row. God grant that thir's naething befell Wat, altho' my 
heart tells me thir is. I'll take my shav/1, an' some whisky wi' 
me, for maybe the puir lad lies frozen an' crushed somewhere. 
I'll pit on the 'gathering coal,' the bairns, bless thir wee hearts 
sleep thro' a' the din.' Noo, Burr, watch them weel. Dinna 
let the bairn near the fire, if it waukens." 

And Annie wrapped them up snugly in the wee bed, an' 
getting down on her knees on the floor, asked strength and 
protection from the Heavenly Guide in simple thoughts and 
humble words, ere she wrapped her shawl around her to fol- 
low Yarrow, in search of her husband. 

The wind had fa'n and a heavy damp thickening snow 
fell, cloging her way and burdening her steps and covering 
up any little path that had been bared by the wind of the 
day. A lantern was no good to her altho' she carried one in 
her hand^^and some matches in her bossom — with the flask 
of whisky, for Annie was ever thoughtful. 

But Yarrow kept close to her, stopping if she fell behind, 
delayed by drift or rut. 

298 



"This is an awfu' nicht, Yarrow. A fearsome night ; if you 
could only speak, you could tell me what's happened my Wat. 
I hope he's no deid, no deid." And Annie would kneel among 
the snow, praying in her simple way, for the Lord to lead 
her thro' the agency o' Yarrow to where her husband was, 
for she was certain now that he lay hurt, or perhaps dead, 
in the Quarry Hole, by the direction that Yarrow was con- 
voying her. 

Thicker and thicker fell the snow, blinding poor Annie, 
altho' she saw nothing but Yarrow's towsy body, struggling 
and rolling in front of her. Instinct or a higher power lead- 
ing him. 

"Noo, I'm shair, I ken where we are. We're gaun doon 
the cart road. I ken by its ruchness. Eh, lad ! what is it guid 
dog?" for Yarrow started barking. "Wat, Wat, we're comin', 
comin'. Oh, dear, dear, if he wis alive he wad shairly answer. 
Where is he guid dog? Wis that a cry. Wat, Wat, we're 
comin', baud up, lad. Wait, Yarrow, till I licht the candle. 
Thir's no muckle wind ; an' we're weel sheltered." And Annie 
hunkered among the snow making a bield with her shawl while 
she lit the candle in the lantern. Yarrow impatiently watching. 

"Noo, lad, if Wat'll only see it, it'll cheer him." At last 
she was rewarded by hearing a faint cry, Yarrow bounding 
from her in its direction. And by the dim reflection of the 
lantern, Annie was drawn to where poor Wat lay crushed an' 
bleeding, an' nearly dead with the night's exposure. 

"Oh Wat, Wat; what has happened?" and Annie held the 
flask to Wat's lips. After a good gurgle from the flask Wat 
was able to tell, while Annie, with that tenderness belonging 

299 



to a woman, rolled his maud around him, folding up her own 
shawl for a pillow to rest his head, scraping the snow and 
loose stones from beneath him. 

"I dinna ken, exactly hoo it happened, lass; but I was try- 
ing to grip a yowe wi' my crook that was too near the edge. 
I missed it and stumbled, falling over, and here I am ; I canna 
move. I'm shair my richt leg is broken, an' my ribs seems 
smashed to a jelly, but lass I didna mean Yarrow to gang 
for you. I sent him to the big hoose." 

"Yarrow had mair sense, good dog; they wad never hae 
understood him, an' 'twas but natural he should come for me. 
But I'll rin mysel' an' bring some o' the folk, an' maybe 
the maister'll send the callant for the doctor. I'll set the 
lantern doon by yer heid. Yarrow will 'bide wi' you, an' 
should the candle burn oot, his bark will guide the folk. I'll 
no' be lang, for the nicht's clearin' up, and after I reach the 
edge o' the plantain, I'll rin a' the wye." 

"The bairns, the bairns?" moaned Wat. 

"The bairns are a' richt, wi' auld Burr. The same power 
that gave Yarrow the understanding to come for me an' lead 
me thro' the storm to your side will protect oor bairns even 
tho' His instrument be but a dumb brute 'till we get back. 
Na, na, I'll gang lichter withoot my shawl. Bide by yer 
maister, Yarrow !" and with this last command to the dog, 
and another kiss on Wat's lips, away stumbled Annie over 
the rough stones out of the Quarry Hole, for it was but a 
mile from the farm house, and the snow had cleared away, 
leaving a clear starlit sky in its wake. The road was level 
after reaching the plaintain, and with love at her elbow urging 

300 



her on, an' giving strength and speed to her limbs, she Soon 
reached the farm house, where all was in darkness, the in- 
mates having gone to bed an hour before. It was the guid 
man himself that heard the thumping on the door. Putting 
his head out of the window, he demanded to know who was 
there. 

"It's me, Maister Kerr, the herd's Annie. An' Wat has 
tumbled into the Quarry Hole, an' lies there near deid. Hurry 
up, man, an' sen' the men to help him." 

HI. 

But "the Kerr" was already arousing man an' maid in the 
building, an' while the guid wife hurried an' got dry clothes 
for Annie — for she was wet through with the snow in her 
search for Wat — and some warm drink, he was hurrying the 
ploughmen off in search for Wat, scolding Annie for wanting 
to go with them, telling her, in his affected roughness, that 
she would be but a hindrance to the men. Ordering the cal- 
lant to saddle his naig an' bring it around to the door, he made 
preparations to ride for the doctor himself, explaining to the 
guidwife and Annie to send siccan a sumph as the callant after 
the doctor would be but to borrow mair trouble. And draw- 
ing his wife aside, to tie his muffler, he advised her to get 
Annie back to her bairns before he came back wi' the doctor. 

"I'll leave it to yer ain wit to get her away," he said. "Ye 
can let her 'bide till the hinds bring Wat; then the callant can 
yoke the powny to the hay-sled, an' take her home. The doc- 
tor's a skilly-man, but a wee thocht rough." 

In less than an hour the plowmen staggered in with Wat, 
on a rough home-made stretcher, Yarrow following close be- 

301 



hind them. The guid wife, wi' the help o' the lasses — for 
Annie, puir lass, just stood looking on, useless to do anything 
but cry — soon had him resting comfortably on the sofa. As 
she said, looking real respectable for the doctor's visit. Wat 
himself tried to look indifferent, as Annie ksised him and hung 
over him, but the guid wife read the agony in his eyes, as she 
drew Annie from him, telling her, "It's time you were back 
hame to the bairns; ye can dae nae mair guid here; an' be- 
sides, ye'll just make Wat feel miserable, seeing you stand- 
ing suffering as well as himsel'. Jamie, the callant, will yoke 
up the powny into the sled, an' he'll no' be lang o' taking 
you to the hill-head. An' take Yarrow with you; he's fair 
tired oot, an' can lie at yer feet. I've nae fear but we can 
move Wat some wye or ither to the hill-head in the morn. 
Hurry, noo, Jamie, an' yoke up the powny into the sled," and 
bundling Annie well up, she hustled her away, warning the 
callant to keep to the cairt road. 

After seeing her well started on her way she closed the 
door, turning to Tibbie, the house lass, she gave a sigh of re- 
lief, whispering, "I'm gled she's gaen afore the doctor comes. 
Puir lass, she's fair din oot, plucky an' a' as she is. The doc- 
tor's handlin' o' Wat, for I fear he's gey badly hurt, wad be 
owre muckle for her." 

IV. 

It seemed to be a long journey to Annie, for once she got 
started homewards her thoughts flew ahead to her children. 
Yarrow, who had gotten a good supper at the farmer's, scorned 
to ride in the sled, sae trotted an' bounded alongside the pony. 
Jamie, the callant, felt the sorrow in his heart for poor Annie, 

302 



but being a rude, uncultivated lad, was at a loss for what to 
say to cheer her. "Will I sing- ye a sang or whistle a tune, 
Annie?" he asked her. But Annie's heart was too heavy to 
answer. So whiles he whistled an' whiles he sang to cheer 
himself and the pony. 

At last they reached the hill-head. It was Jamie that 
opened the door, Annie holding back. The callant has traveled 
far, but in all his journeys he has never seen a fairer picture 
than the one in the little hill-head cottage that memorable 
March night. Auld Burr lay on the sheepskin rug by the 
fire, the bairn cuddled up near his head sound asleep, her wee 
hands clasped around his neck; while wee Wat, his curly 
golden head pillowed on the auld collie's towsy back, lay smil- 
ing, happy in the dreams of his bairnhood's day. Annie 
brushed past the callant, kneeling down beside the threesome, 
and the callant turned, closing the door, whistling to keep the 
tears back. The fields were bowing to the sickle and the 
bracken yellowed in its dryness, ere Wat was able to go among 
his sheep again, and with a limp that he will carry to his 
grave — a remembrance of that terrible night, when his brave- 
hearted little v^Aife, "the noblest woman I ken o'," says the Kerr 
— by the sagacity o' the faithful, rough-coated collie, saved 
him from certain death, by exposure, in the Quarry Hole. 



303 



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